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A  CHAIR  ON  THE 
BOULEVARD 

By     LEONARD     MERRICK 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
A.  NEIL  LYONS 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1921, 
BY  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


Ml  Rights  Reserved 


Firgt  American  Definitive  Edition,  with 
Introduction  by  A.  Neil  Lyons,  lim- 
ited to  1,550  copies  (of  which  only 
1  500  were  for  sale)  Published  April, 
1921 
Second  American  Edition,  April,  1921 
Third  «  "  "         1921 

Fourth         "  "  "         1921 

Fifth  "  "  "         1921 


Printed  in  tho  Unltod  Statei  of  America 


CONTENTS 


& 


PAGE 

/The  Tragedy  of  a  Comic  Song      •         *         •         •         1 


II 

^Tricotrin  Entertains     .         .         •         •         •         .19 

III 

The  Fatal  Florozonde  .         •         •         •         •         .41 

IV 

The  Opportunity  of  Petitpas       .         .         .         .       QS 

V 

The  Cafe  of  the  Broken  Heart   •         •         .         .       83 

VI 
The  Dress  Clothes  of  Monsieur  Pomponnet        .     101 

X  VII 

The  Suicides  in  the  Rue  Sombre  .         .         .         ,121 

VIII 
/J  The  Conspiracy  for  Claudine       •         •         •         .     140 

IX 

The  Doll  in  the  Pink  Silk  Dress        •         •         .     I6l 

V 


^^7J99 


yi 


CONTENTS 


The  Last  Effect 


XI 


^ 


An  Invitation  to  Dinner     • 

XII 


HI  Judomxnt  of  Paris  . 


\  The  Fairy  Poodle 


XIII 


XIV 
Little-Flower-of-the-Wood  . 

XV 

A  Miracle  in  Montmartre     . 

XVI 
1'he  Danger  of  Being  a  Twin 


XVII 


I        ■ 


•         « 


i  • 


•  »' 


•  « 


Hercuues  and  Aphrodite 


XVIII 
V  "Pardon,  You  Are  Mademoiselle  Girard!"   • 

XIX 
How  Tricotrin  Saw  London  .        .        .        , 

XX 

The  Infidelity  of  Monsieur  Noulens  • 


PAGB 

.     187 


.     207 


.     225 


240 


.     261 


.     279 


.     299 


.     318 


.     334. 


.     355 


.     373 


INTRODUCTION 

These  disjointed  thoughts  about  one  of 
Leonard  Merrick's  most  articulate  books  must 
begin  with  a  personal  confession. 

For  many  years  I  walked  about  this  earth 
avoiding  the  works  of  Leonard  Merrick,  as 
other  men  might  have  avoided  an  onion.  This 
insane  aversion  was  created  in  my  mind  chiefly 
by  admirers  of  what  is  called  the  "cheerful" 
note  in  fiction.  Such  people  are  completely 
agreed  in  pronouncing  Mr.  Merrick  to  be  a 
pessimistic  writer.    I  hate  pessimistic  writers. 

Years  ago,  when  I  was  of  an  age  when  the 
mind  responds  acutely  to  exterior  impressions, 
some  well-meaning  uncle,  or  other  fool,  gave  me 
a  pessimistic  book  to  read.  This  was  a  work  of 
fiction  which  the  British  Public  had  hailed  as 
a  masterpiece  of  humour.  It  represented,  with 
an  utter  fury  of  pessimism,  the  spiritual  inade- 
quacies of — but  why  go  into  details. 

Now,  I  have  to  confess  that  for  a  long  time  I 
did  Mr.  Merrick  the  extraordinary  injustice  of 

vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

believing  him  to  be  the  author  of  that  popular 
masterpiece. 

The  mistake,  though  intellectually  unpardon- 
able, may  perhaps  be  condoned  on  other  grounds. 
By  virtue  of  that  process  of  thought  which  we 
call  the  "association  of  ideas,"  I  naturally 
connected  ^Ir.  Merrick  with  this  work  of  super- 
pessimism;  my  friends  being  so  confirmed  in 
their  belief  that  he  was  a  super-pessimist. 

But  by  virtue  of  a  fortunate  accident,  I  at 
last  got  the  truth  about  Mr.  Merrick.  This 
event  arose  from  the  action  of  a  right-minded 
butcher,  who,  having  exhausted  his  stock  of  The 
Pigeon^Fancier's  Gazette,  sent  me  my  weekly 
supply  of  dog-bones  wrapped  about  with  Leon- 
ard Merrick. 

These  dog-bones  happened  to  reach  my  house 
at  a  moment  when  no  other  kind  of  literary 
nutriment  was  to  be  had.  Having  nothing  better 
to  read  I  read  the  dog-bone  wrappers.  Thus,  by 
dog-bones,  was  I  brought  to  Merrick:  the  most 
jolly,  amusing,  and  optimistic  of  all  spiritual 
friends. 

The  book  to  which  these  utterances  are  pre- 
fixed is  to  my  mind  one  of  the  few  really  amusing 
books  which  have  been  published  in  England  dur- 
ing  my  lifetime.  But,  then,  I  think  that  all  of 
Mr.   Merrick's   books   are   amusing:    even   his 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

"earnest"  books,  such  as  The  Actor-Manager, 
When  Love  Flies  out  o'  the  Window,  or  The 
Position  of  Peggy  Harper. 

It  is,  of  course,  true  that  such  novels  as  these 
are  unlikely  to  be  found  congenial  by  those 
persons  who  derive  entertainment  from  fiction 
like  my  uncle's  present.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  are  people  in  the  world  with  a  capacity 
for  being  amused  by  psychological  inquiry.  To 
such  people  I  would  say:  "Don't  miss  Merrick." 
The  extraordinary  cheerfulness  of  Mr.  Merrick's 
philosophy  is  a  fact  which  will  impress  itself  upon 
all  folk  who  are  able  to  take  a  really  cheerful 
view  of  life. 

All  of  Mr.  Merrick's  sermons — I  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  call  his  novels  "sermons,"  because  no 
decent  novel  can  be  anything  else — all  his  ser- 
mons, I  say,  point  to  this  conclusion:  that  people 
who  go  out  deliberately  to  look  for  happiness,  to 
kick  for  it,  and  fight  for  it,  or  who  try  to  buy  it 
with  money,  will  miss  happiness;  this  being  a 
state  of  heart — a  mere  outgrowth,  more  often  to 
be  found  by  a  careless  and  self-forgetful  vagrant 
than  by  the  deliberate  and  self-conscious  seeker. 
A  cheerful  doctrine  this.  Not  only  cheerful,  but 
self-evidently  true.  How  right  it  is,  and  how 
cheerful  it  is,  to  think  that  while  philosophers  and 
clergymen  strut  about  this  world  looking  out, 


X  INTRODUCTION 

and  smelling  out,  for  its  prime  experiences,  more 
careless  and  less  celebrated  men  are  continually- 
finding  such  things,  without  effort,  without  care, 
in  irregular  and  unconsecrated  places. 

In  novel  after  novel,  Mr.  Merrick  has  preached 
the  same  good-humoured,  cheerful  doctrine:  the 
doctrine  of  anti-fat.  He  asks  us  to  believe — 
he  makes  us  beheve — ^that  a  man  (or  woman)  is 
not  merely  virtuous,  but  merely  sane,  who 
exchanges  the  fats  of  fulfilment  for  the  little 
lean  pleasures  of  honourable  hope  and  high 
endeavour.    Oh  wise,  oh  witty  Mr,  Merrick! 

Mr.  Merrick  has  not,  to  my  knowledge,  written 
one  novel  in  which  his  hero  is  represented  as  hav- 
ing achieved  complacency.  Mr.  Merrick's  heroes 
all  undergo  the  very  human  experience  of  "hit- 
ting a  snag."  They  are  none  of  them  represented 
as  enjoying  this  experience;  but  none  of  them 
whimper  and  none  of  them  "rat." 

If  anybody  could  prove  to  me  that  Mr.  Mer- 
rick had  ever  invented  a  hero  who  submitted 
tamely  to  tame  success,  to  fat  prosperity;  or  who 
had  stepped,  were  it  ever  so  lightly,  into  the  dirty 
morass  of  accepted  comfort,  then  would  I  cheer- 
fully admit  to  anybody  that  Leonard  Merrick 
is  a  Pessimistic  Writer.  But  until  this  proof  be 
forthcoming,  I  stick  to  my  opinion:  I  stick  to 
the  conviction  that  Mr.  Merrick  is  the  gayest. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

cheerfullest,  and  most  courageous  of  living 
humorists. 

This  opinion  is  a  general  opinion,  applicable 
to  Mr.  Merrick's  general  work.  This  morning, 
however,  I  am  asked  to  narrow  my  field  of  view: 
to  contemplate  not  so  much  Mr.  Merrick  at  large 
as  Mr.  Merrick  in  particular:  to  look  at  Mr. 
Merrick  in  his  relationship  to  this  one  particular 
book:    A  Chai^on  the  Boulevard. 

Now,  if  I  say,  as  I  have  said,  that  Mr.  Merrick 
is  cheerful  in  his  capacity  of  solemn  novelist, 
what  am  I  to  say  of  Mr.  Merrick  in  his  lighter 
aspect,  that  of  a  writer  of  feuilletons?  Address- 
ing myself  to  an  imaginary  audience  of  Magazine 
Enthusiasts,  I  ask  them  to  tell  me  whether, 
judged  even  by  comparison  with  their  favourite 
fiction,  some  of  the  stories  to  be  found  in  this 
volume  are  not  exquisitely  amusing? 

The  first  story  in  the  book — that  which  Mr. 
Merrick  calls  "The  Tragedy  of  a  Comic  Song" — 
is  in  my  view  the  funniest  story  of  this  century: 
but  I  don't  ask  or  expect  the  Magazine  Enthu- 
siast to  share  this  view  or  to  endorse  that  judg- 
ment. "The  Tragedy  of  a  Comic  Song"  is  essen- 
tially one  of  those  productions  in  which  the  reader 
is  expected  to  collaborate.  The  author  has  delib- 
erately contrived  certain  voids  of  narrative;  and 
his  reader  is  expected  to  populate  these  anecdotal 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

wastes.  This  is  asking  more  than  it  is  fair  to  ask 
of  a  Magazine  Enthusiast.  No  genuine  Maga- 
zine reader  cares  for  the  elusive  or  allusive  style 
in  fiction.  "The  Tragedy  of  a  Comic  Song" 
won't  do  for  Bouverie  Street,  however  well  and 
completely  it  may  do  for  me. 

But  there  are  other  stories  in  this  book.  There 
is  that  screaming  farce  called  "The  Suicides  in 
the  Rue  Sombre."  Now,  then,  you  Magazine 
zealots,  speak  up  and  tell  me  truly:  is  there  any- 
thing too  difficult  for  you  in  this?  If  so,  the 
psychology  of  what  is  called  "public  taste" 
becomes  a  subject  not  suited  to  public  discussion. 

The  foregoing  remarks  and  considerations 
apply  equally  to  such  stories  as  "The  Dress 
Clothes  of  M.  Pomponnet"  and  "Tricotrin  En- 
tertains." There  are  other  stories  which  delight 
me,  as,  for  example,  "Little-Flower-of-the- 
Wood" :  but  this  jerks  us  back  again  to  the  essen- 
tial Mr.  Merrick:  he  who  demands  collaboration. 

There  are,  again,  other  stories,  and  yet  others ; 
but  to  write  down  all  their  titles  here  would  be 
merely  to  transcribe  the  index  page  of  the  book. 
Neither  the  reader  nor  I  can  afford  to  waste  our 
time  like  that. 

I  have  said  nothing  about  the  technical  quali- 
ties of  Mr.  Merrick's  work.  I  don't  intend  to 
do  so.     It  has  long  been  a  conceit  of  mine  to 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

believe  that  professional  vendors  of  letterpress 
should  reserve  their  mutual  discussions  of  tech- 
nique for  technical  occasions,  such  as  those 
when  men  of  like  mind  and  occupation  sit  at 
table,  with  a  bottle  between  them. 

I  am  convinced  that  Mr.  Merrick  is  a  very 
great  and  gifted  man,  deeply  skilled  in  his  pro- 
fession. I  can  bring  forth  arguments  and  proofs 
to  support  this  conviction;  but  I  fail  utterly  to 
see  why  I  should  do  so.  To  people  who  have  a 
sense  of  that  which  is  sincere  and  fresh  in  fiction, 
these  facts  will  be  apparent.  To  them  my  argu- 
ments and  illustrations  would  be  profitless.  As 
for  those  honest  persons  to  whom  the  excellencies 
of  Merrick  are  not  apparent,  I  can  only  think 
that  nothing  which  I  or  any  other  man  could  say 
would  render  them  obvious.  "Happiness  is  in 
ourselves,"  as  the  Vicar  remarked  to  the  donkey 
who  was  pulling  the  lawn-mower. 

Good  luck,  Leonard  Merrick,  and  good  cheer! 
I  shout  my  greeting  to  you  across  the  ripples  of 
that  inky  lake  which  is  our  common  fishery. 

A.  Neil  Lyons. 


A  CHAIR  ON  THE 
BOULEVARD 


A  CHAIR  ON  THE 
BOULEVARD 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONiG 

I  LIKE  to  monopolise  a  table  in  a  restaurant, 
unless  a  friend  is  with  me,  so  I  resented  the  young 
man's  presence.  Besides,  he  had  a  melancholy 
face.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  piano-organ,  I 
don't  suppose  I  should  have  spoken  to  him.  As 
the  organ  f  ha*,  was  aSicting  Lisle  Street  jjegan  to 
volley  a  comic  song  of  a  day  that  was  dead,  he 
started. 

''That  tune!''  he  murmured  in  French.  If  I 
did  not  deceive  myself,  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes. 

I  was  curious.  Certainly,  on  both  sides  of  the 
Channel,  we  had  long  ago  had  more  than  enough 
of  the  tune — i^io  self-respecting  organ-grinder 
rattled  it  now  '  That  the  young  Frenchman 
should  wince  at  the  tune  I  understood.  But  that 
he  should  weep! 

I  smiled  sympathetically.  "We  suffered  from 
it  over  here  as  well,"  I  remarked. 

1 


t  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"I  did  not  know,"  he  said,  in  English  that 
reproved  my  French,  "it  was  sung  in  London 
aljo— Tartant  pour  le  Moulin'?" 

•"Under  another  name,"  I  told  him,  "it  was  an 
epidemic." 

Clearly,  the  organ  had  stin-ed  distressing  mem- 
ories in  him^/for  though  we  fell  to  chatting,  I 
could  see  that  he  neither  talked  nor  dined  with 
any  relish.  As  luck  would  have  it,  toch^the  instru- 
ment of  torture  resumed  its  repertoire  ^ell  wit  in 
hearing'  an  J  when  'Tartant  pour  le  INIoulin" 
was  reached  again,  he  clasped  his  head. 

'*You  find  it  so  painful?"  I  inquired, 

"Painful?"'  he  exclaimed.  "Monsieur,  it  is  my 
'istory,  that  comic  tune!  It  is  to  me  romance, 
tragedy,  ruin.  Will  you  hear?  Wait!  I  s'lall 
range  my  ideas.    Listen: 

It  is  Paris,  at  Montmartre — ^we  are  before  the 
door  of  a  laundress.  A  girl  approaches,  fliev 
gaze  is  troubled,  she  frowns  a  little.  TVhat  ails 
her?  I  shall  tell  you:  the  laundress  has  reftsed 
to  deliver  her  washing  until  her  bill  is  paid.  And 
the  girl  cannot  pay  it— not  till  Saturday— and 
she  has  need  of  things  to  put  on.  It  is  a  moment 
of  anxiety. 

She  opens  the  door.  Some  minutas  pass. 
The  girl  reappears,  holding  under  her  arm  a  little 


THE  ^TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONG    S 

parcejr  Good!  she  has  triumphed.  In  coming 
outjshe  sees  a  young  man,  pale,  abstracted,  who 
stands  before  the  shop.  He  does  not  attempt 
to  enter.  He  stands  motionless,  regarding  the 
window  with  an  air  forlorn. 

"Ah,"  she  says  to  herself,  "here  is  another 
customer  who  cannot  pay  his  bill!'' 

But  wait  a  little.  After  'alf  an  hour  what  hap- 
pens? She  sees  the  young  man  again!  This 
time  he  stands  before  a  modest  restaurant.  Does 
he  go  in?  No,  again  no!  j^He  regards  the  win- 
dow sorrowfully .^  He  sighs.  The  dejection  of 
his  attitude  would  melt  a  stone. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  thought;  "he  camiot  pay  for 
a  dinner  either!" 

The  affair  is  not  finished.  How  the  summer 
day  is  beautiful — she  v/ill  do  some  footing!  Fig- 
ure yourself  that  once  more  she  perceives  the 
young  man.  Now  it  is  before  the  mont-de-piete, 
the  pawnbroker's.  She  watches  him  attentively. 
Here,  at  least,  he  will  enter,  Ihe  do  3,^  not  doubt. 
She  is  wrong.  It  is  the  same  thing — ^he  regards, 
he  laments,  he  turnsv  away! 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu,"  she  said.  "Nothing  remains 
to  him  to  pawn  ever !" 

It  is  too  strong!    She  addressed  him: 

"Monsieur!" 
(But,  when  she  ha^  said  "Monsieur,"  there  is 


4  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

the  question  how  she  shall  continue.  Now  the 
young  man  regards  the  girl  instead  of  the  pawn- 
broker's. Her  features  are  pretty— or  "pretty 
well";  her  costume  has  been  made  by  herself,  but 
it  is  not  bad;  /ud  she  has  chic—above  all  she 
has  chic.    He  abks: 

**What  can  I  have  the  pleasure  to  do  for  you?" 

Remark  that  she  is  bohemian,  and  he  also. 
The  conversation  was  like  this: 

"Monsieur,  three  times  this  morning  I  have 
seen  you.  It  was  impossible  that  I  resist  speak- 
ing.   You  have  grief?" 

"Frightful!    he  said, 

"Perhaps,"  jhe  added  timidly,  'you  have  hun- 
ger also?" 

"A  hunger  insupportable,  mademoiselle!" 

"I  myself  am  extremely  hard  up,  monsieur, 
but  will  you  permit  that  I  offer  you  what  I  can?" 

"Angel!"  he  young  man  exclaimed.  ''There 
must  be  wings  under  your  coat.  (But  i  beg  of 
you  not  to  fly  yet. .  I  shall  tell  you  the  reason  of 
my  grief.  If  you  will  do  me  the  honour  to  seat 
yourself  at  the  cafe  opposite,  we  shall  be  able  to 
talk  more  pleasantly." 

This  appeared  strange  enough,  this  invitation 
from  a  young  man  who  she  had  supposed  was 
starving;  but  wait  a  little!  Her  amazement 
increased  when,  to  pay    for  the  wine  he  had 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONG    6 

ordered,  her  companion  threw  on  to  the  table  a 
bank-note  with  a  gesture  absolutely  careless. 

She  was  in  dang^ :  of  distrusting  her  eyes. 

"Is  it  a  dream?":  he  cried.  "Is  it  a  vision  from 
the  Thousand  and^  One  Nights,  or  is  it  really  a 
bank-note?" 

"Mademoiselle,  it  is  the  mess  of  pottage,"  the 
young  man  answered  gloomily.  "It  is  the  cause 
of  my  sadness:  for  that  miserable  money,  and 
more  that  is  to  come,  I  have  sold  my  birthright." 

She  was  on  a  ship — ^no,  what  is  it,  your  expres- 
sion?— "at  sea"! 

"I  am  a  poet,"  he  explained;  "but  perhaps 
you  may  not  know  my  work;  I  am  not  celebrated. 
I  am  Tricotrin,  mademoiselle — Gustave  Trico- 
trin,  it  your  feet!  For  years  I  have  written, 
aided  by  ambition,  and  an  uncle  who  manufac- 
tures silk  in  Lyons.  Well,  the  time  is  arrived 
when  he  is  monstrous,  this  uncle.  He  says  to  me, 
'Gustave,  this  cannot  last — ^you  make  no  living, 
you  make  nothing  but  debts,  v  My  tragedies  he 
ignores.  Either  you  must  be  a  poet  who  makes 
money,  or  you  must  be  a  partner  who  makes  silk.' 
How  could  I  defy  him? — he  holds  the  purse.  It 
was  unavoidable  that  I  stooped.  He  has  given 
me  a  sum  to  satisfy  my  creditors,  and  Monday  I 
depart  for  Lyons.    In  the  meantime,  I  take  ten- 


6  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

der  farewells  of  the  familiar  scenes  I  shall  per- 
haps never  behold  again." 

'*How  I  have  been  mistaken!"  he  exclaimed. 
And  then:    '*But  the  hunger  you  confessed?" 

*'0f  the  soul,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  poet— 
"the  most  bitter  1" 

"And  you  have  no  difficulties  with  the  laun- 
dress?" 

"None,"  he  groaned.  "But  in  the  bright  days 
of  poverty  that  have  fled  for  ever,  I  have  ha^l 
many  difficulties  with  her.  This  morning  i 
reconstituted  the  situation — I  imagined  myself 
without  a  sou,  and  without  a  collar." 

"The  little  restaurant,"  she  questioned, 
"where  I  saw  you  dining  on  the  odour?" 

"I  figured  fondly  to  myself  that  I  was  raven- 
ous and  that  I  dared  not  enter.    It  was  sublime.' 

"The  mont-de-piete?" 

"There  imagination  restored  to  me  the  van- 
ished moments  when  I  have  mounted  with  sus- 
pense, and  my  least  deplorable  suit  of  clothes." 
His  emotion  was  profound.  "It  is  my  youth 
to  which  I  am  bidding  adieu!"  he  cried.  'It  is 
more  than  that — it  is  my  aspirations  and  mv 


renown!" 


"But  you  have  said  that  you  have  no  renown," 
she  reminded  him.  A 

"So  much  the  more  painful,"  said  the  young 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONG    7 

man;  ''the  hussy  we  could  not  win  is  always  the 
fairest — I  part  from  renown  even  more  despair- 
ingly than  from  youth." 

She  felt  an  amusement,  an  interest.  But  soon 
it  was  the  turn  of  him  to  feel  an  interest— rthe 
interest  that  had  consequences  so  important  so 
'eart-brealdng)  so  fatales!  He  had  demanded 
of  her,  finost  naturally,  her  history,  and  this  she 
related  to  him  in  a  style  dramatic.  (  IMyself,  I 
have  not  the  style  dramatic,  though  I  avow  to 
you  I  admire  that.;- 

''We  are  in  a  provincial  town,"  she  said  to  the 
young  man,  "we  are  in  Rouen — ^the  workroom  of 
a  modiste.  Have  no  embarrassment,  monsieur 
Tricotrin,  ypu,  at  least,  are  invisible  to  the  girls 
who  sew !  They  sew  all  day  and  talk  little — 
already  they  are  tristes,  resigned.  Among  them 
sits  one  who  is  different — one  passionate,  ambi- 
tious— a  girl  who  burns  to  be  divette,  singer,  who 
is  devoured  by  longings  for  applause,  fashion, 
wealth.  She  has  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  little 
pastrycook.  He  has  become  fascinated,  they  are 
affianced.    In  a  month  she  will  be  married." 

The  young  man,  Tricotrin,  well  understood 
that  the  girl  she  described  was  herself. 

''What  does  she  consider  while  she  sits  sew- 
ing?" she  continued.  "That  the  pastrycook  loves 
her,  that  he  is  generous,  that  she  will  do  her  most 


8  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

to  be  to  him  a  good  wife?  Not  at  all.  Far  from 
that!  She  considers,  on  the  contrary,  that  she 
was  a  fool  to  promise  him;  she  considers  how  she 
shall  escape — from  him,  from  Rouen,  from  her 
ennui — she  seeks  to  fly  to  Paris.  Alas !  she  has 
no  money,  not  a  franc.  And  she  sews — always 
she  sews  in  the  dull  room — and  her  spirit  rebels." 

"Good!"  said  the  poet.  "It  is  a  capital  first 
instalment." 

"The  time  goes  on.  There  remains  only  a 
week  to  the  marriage  morning.  The  httle  home 
is  prepared,  the  little  pastrycook  is  full  of  jry, 
(AlorSj  one  evening  they  go  out;  for  her  the  sole 
attraction  in  the  town  is  the  hall  of  ^^arieties. 
Yes,  it  is  third  class,  it  is  not  great  things ;  how- 
ever, it  is  the  only  one  in  Rouen.  Be  purcha;Les 
two  tickets.  What  a  misfortune — it  is  the  last 
temptation  to  her!  T?hey  stroll  back;  she  takes 
his  arm — under  the  moon,  under  the  stars;  but 
she  sees  only  th,e  lamps  of  Paris! — she  sees  only 
that  he  can  say  nothing  she  cares  to  hear!" 

"Ah,  unhappy  man!"  murmured  the  poet. 

"They  sit  at  a  cafe  table,  and  he  talks,  the 
fiance,  of  the  bliss  that  is  to  come  to  them.  She 
attends  to  not  a  word,  not  a  syllable.  While 
she  smiles,  she  questions  herself,  frenzied,  how 
she  can  escape.  She  has  commanded  a  sirop. 
As  she  lifts  her  glass  to  the  syphon,  her  gaze  falls 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONG         9 

on  the  ring  she  wears — ^the  ring  of  their  betrothal. 
'To  the  future,  cher  ange!'  says  the  fiance.  'To 
the  future,  vieux  cheri!'  she  says.  And  she 
laughs  in  her  heart — for  she  resolves  to  sell  the 
ring!" 

Tricotrin  had  become  absolutely  enthralled. 

"She  obtained  for  the  ring  forty-five  francs  the 
next  day — and  for  the  little  pastrycook  all  is 
finished.  She  wrote  him  a  letter — 'Good-bye.' 
He  has  lost  his  reason.  Mad  with  despair,  he 
has  flung  himself  before  an  electric  car,  and  is 
killed.  ...  It  is  strange,"  she  added  to  the 
poet,  who  regarded  her  with  consternation,  "that 
I  did  not  think  sooner  of  the  ring  that  was  always 
on  my  finger,  n'est-ce-pas  ?  It  may  be  that  never 
before  had  I  felt  so  furious  an  impulse  to  desert 
him.  It  may  be  also — that  there  was  no  ring 
and  no  pastrycook!"  And  she  broke  into  peals 
of  laughter. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu,"  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
"but  you  are  enchanting!  Let  us  go  to  ^eak- 
fast— you  are  the  kindred  soul  I  have  looked  for 
all  my  life.  By-the-bye,  I  may  as  well  know 
your  name?" 

Then,  monsieur,  this  poor  girl  who  had  trem- 
bled before  her  laimdress,  she  told  him  a  name 
which  was  going,  in  a  while,  to  crowd  the  Ambas- 
sadeurs  and  be  famous  through  all  Paris-j-a  name 


10  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

which  was  to  mean  caprices,  folly,  extravagance 
the  most  wilful  and  reckless.  She  answered — 
and  it  said  nothing  yet— *'My  name  is  Paulette 
Fleury." 

(The  piano-organ  stopped  short,  as  if  it  knew 
the  Frenchman  had  reached  a  crisis  in  his  narra- 
Hre.  He  folded  his  arms  and  nodded  impres- 
sively. 

"Voila!  Monsieur,  I  'ave  introduced  you  to 
Paulette  Fleury!    It  was  her  beginning." 

He  oflFered  me  a  cigarette,  and  frowned,  lost 
in  thought,  at  the  lady  who  was  chopping  bread 
behind  the  counter. 

"Listen,"  he  resumed. 

They  have  breakfasted ;  they  have  fed  the  spar- 
rows around  their  chairs,  and  they  have  strolled 
under  the  green  trees  in  the  sunshine.)  She  was 
singing  then  at  a  little  cafe-concert  the  most 
obscure.  It  is  arranged,  before  they  part,  that 
in  the  evening  he  shall  go  to  applaud  her. 

He  had  a  friend,  young  also,  a  composer, 
named  Nicolas  Pitou.  I  cannot  express  to  you 
the  devotion  that  existed  between  them.  Pitou 
was  employed  at  a  publisher's,  but  the  publisher 
paid  him  not  much  better  than  his  art.]  The 
comrades  have  shared  everything:  the  loans  from 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONG       11 

the  mont-de-piete,  the  attic,  and  the  dreams.  In 
Montmartre  it  was  said  "Tricotrin  and  Pitou"  as 
one  says  ''Orestes  and  Pylades."  It  is  beautiful 
such  affection,  hein  ?    Listen ! 

Tricotrin  has  recounted  to  his  friend  his  meet- 
ing with  Paulette,  and  when  the  hour  for  the 
concert  is  arrived,  Pitou  accompanied  him.  The 
musician,  however,  was,  perhaps,  the  more  sedate. 
He  has  gone  with  little  expectation ;  his  interest 
was  not  high. 

What  a  surprise  he  has  had!  He  has  found 
her  an  actress — an  artist  to  the  ends  of  the  fin- 
gers. Tricotrin  was  astonished  also.  The  two 
friends,  the  poet  and  the  composer,  said  "Mon 
Dieu!"  They  regarded  the  one  the  other.  They 
said  "Mon  Dieul"  again.  Soon  Pitou  has 
requested  of  Tricotrin  an  introduction.  It  is 
agreed.  Tricotrin  has  presented  his  friend,  and 
invited  the  chanteuse  to  drink  a  bock — a  glass  of 
beer.  .  .  .A  propos,  you  take  a  liqueur,  mon- 
sieur, yes?  What  liqueur  you  take?  Sst,  gar- 
con!  L  •  .  Well,  you  conjecture,  no  doubt,  what 
I  shall  say?  Before  the  bock  was  finished,  they 
were  in  love  with  her — both! 

At  the  door  of  her  lodging,  Paulette  has  given 
to  each  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  said  gently, 
"Till  to-morrow.'' 

"I  worship  her!"  Tricotrin  told  Pitou. 


12  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"I  have  found  my  ideal!"  Pitou  answered  Tri- 

cotrin. 

It  is  superb,  such  friendship,  hein? 

In  the  mind  of  the  poet  who  had  accomplished 
tragedies  majestic — in  the  mind  of  the  composer, 
the  most  classical  in  Montmartre — there  had  been 
born  a  new  ambition:  it  was  to  write  a  comic 
song  for  Paulette  Fleury! 

It  appears  to  you  droll,  perhaps?  MoDsieur, 
to  her  lover,  the  humblest  divette  is  more  than 
Patti.  In  all  the  world  there  can  be  no  joy  so 
thrilling  as  to  hear  the  music  of  one's  brain  sung 
by  the  woman  one  adores — ^unless  it  be  to  hear 
the  woman  one  adores  give  forth  one's  verse. 
1  believe  it  has  been  accepted  as  a  fact,  this*,, 
nevertheless  it  is  true. 

Yes,  already  the  idea  had  come  to  them,  and 
Paulette  was  well  pleased  when  they  told  her  of 
it.  Oh,  she  knew  they  loved  her,  both,  and  with 
both  she  coquetted.  But  with  their  intention 
she  did  not  coquet;  as  to  that  she  was  in  earnest. 
Every  day  they  discussed  it  with  enthusiasm — 
they  were  to  write  a  song  that  should  make  for 
her  a  furore. 

What  happened?  I  shall  tell  you.  Monday, 
when  Tricotrin  was  to  depart  for  Lyons,  he 
informed  his  uncle  that  he  will  not  go.  No  less 
than  that!     His  uncle  was  furious — I  do  not 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONG       13 

blame  him — but  naturally  Tricotrin  has  argued, 
''If  I  am  to  create  for  Paulette  her  great  chance, 
I  must  remain  in  Paris  to  study  Paulette!  I 
cannot  create  in  an  atmosphere  of  commerce.  I 
require  the  Montmartrois,  the  boulevards,  the 
inspiration  of  her  presence."     Isn't  it? 

And  Pitou — whose  very  soul  had  been  enrap- 
tured in  his  leisure  by  a  fugue  he  wa?  composing 
— Pitou  would  have  no  more  of  it.  He  allowed 
the  fugue  to  grow  dusty,  while  day  and  night  he 
thought  always  of  refrains  that  ran  ''Zim-la-zim- 
la  zim-boum-houmr  Constantly  they  conferred, 
the  comrades.  They  told  the  one  the  other  how 
they  loved  her;  and  then  they  beat  their  heads, 
and  besought  of  Providence  a  fine  idea  for  the 
comic  song. 

It  was  their  thought  supreme.  The  silk  manu- 
facturer has  washed  his  'ands  of  Tricotrin,  but 
he  has  not  cared — there  remained  to  him  still  one 
of  the  bank-notes.  As  for  Pitou,  v/ho  neglected 
ever}i;hing  except  to  find  his  melody  for  Paulette, 
the  publisher  has  given  him  the  sack.  Their 
acquaintances  ridicaled  the  sacrifices  made  for 
her.  But,  monsieur,  when  a  man  loves  truly,  to 
make  a  sacrifice  for  the  woman  is  to  make  a  pres- 
ent to  himself. 

Nevertheless  I  avow  to  you  that  they  fretted 
because  of  her  coquetry.    One  hour  it  seemed  that 


14  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Pitou  had  gained  her  heart ;  the  next  her  encour- 
agement has  been  all  to  Tricotrin.  (  Sometimes 
thej''  have  said  to  her: 

'Taulette,  it  is  true  we  are  as  Orestes  and 
Pylades,  but  there  can  be  only  one  King  of  Eden 
at  the  time.  Is  it  Orestes,  or  Pylades  that  you 
mean  to  crown?" 

Then  she  would  laugh  and  reply: 

*'How  can  I  say?  I  like  you  both  so  much 
I  can  never  make  up  my  mind  which  to  like  best." 

It  was  not  satisfactory. 

And  always  she  added.  "In  the  meantime, 
where  is  the  song?" 

Al^  the  song,  that  song,  how  tkey  have  sought 
it! — on  the  Butte,  and  in  the  Bois,  and  round  the 
Ilalles.  Often  they  have  tramped  Paris  till  day- 
break, meditating  the  great  chance  for  Paulette. 
And  at  last  the  poet  has  discovered  it:  for  each 
verse  a  different  phase  of  life,  but  through  it  all, 
the  pursuit  of  gaiety,  the  fever  of  the  dance — ^the 
gaiety  of  youth,  the  gaiety  of  dotage,  the  gaiety 
of  despair !  It  should  be  the  song  of  the  pleasure- 
seekers — ^the  voices  of  Paris  when  the  lamps  are 
lit. 

Monsieur,  if  we  sat  'ere  in  the  restaurant  until 
it  closed,  I  could  not  describe  to  you  how  pas- 
sionately Tricotrin,  the  devoted  Tricotrin, 
worked  for  her.     He  has  studied  her  without 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONG       15 

cease;  he  has  studied  her  attitudes,  her  expres- 
sions. He  has  taken  his  lyric  as  if  it  were  mate- 
rial and  cut  it  to  her  jfigure ;  he  has  taken  it  as  if 
it  were  plaster,  and  moulded  it  upon  her  manner- 
isms. There  was  not  a  moue  that  she  made,  not 
a  pretty  trick  that  she  had,  not  a  word  that  she 
liked  to  sing  for  which  he  did  not  provide  an 
opportunity.  At  the  last  line,  when  the  pen  fell 
from  his  fingers,  he  shouted  to  Pitou,  "Comrade, 
be  brave — I  have  won  her !" 

And  Pitou?  Monsieur,  if  we  sat  'ere  till  they 
prepared  the  tables  for  dejeuner  to-morrow,  I 
could  not  describe  to  you  how  passionately  Pitou, 
the  devoted  Pitou,  worked  that  she  might  have  a 
grand  popularity  by  his  music.  At  dawn,  when 
he  has  found  that  strepitoso  passage,  which  is 
the  hurrying  of  the  feet,  he  wakened  the  poet 
and  cried,  "Mon  ami,  I  pity  you — she  is  mine!" 
It  was  the  souls  of  two  men  when  it  was  finished, 
that  comic  song  they  made  for  her !  It  was  the 
song  the  organ  has  ground  out — ''Partant  pour 
le  Moulin." 

And  then  they  rehearsed  it,  the  three  of  them, 
over  and  over,  inventing  always  new  effects, 
And  then  the  night  for  the  song  is  arrived.  |It 
has  rained  all  day,  and  they  have  walked  together 
in  the  rain — ^the  singer,  and  the  men  who  loved 


16  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

her,  both — to  the  little  cafe-concert  where  she 
would  appear.  ^  ^ 

They  tremble  in  the  room,  l^mong  the  crow(|i 
Pitou  and  Tricotrin;  they  are  agitated.  There 
are  others  who  sing — it  says  nothing  to  them. 
In  the  room,  in  the  Future,  there  is  only 
Paulette! 

It  is  very  hot  in  the  cafe-concert,  and  there  is 
too  much  noise.  At  last  they  ask  her:  "Is  she 
nervous?"  She  shakes  her  head:  "Mais  non!" 
She  smiles  to  them. 

Attend!  It  is  her  turn.  Ouf;  but  it  is  hot 
in  the  cafe-concert,  and  there  is  too  much  noise! 
She  mounts  the  platform.  The  audience  are 
careless;  it  continues,  the  jingle  of  the  glasses, 
the  hum  of  talk.  She  begins.  Beneath  the  table 
Tricotrin  has  gripped  the  hand  of  Pitou. 

Wait!  Regard  the  crowd  that  look  at  her! 
The  glasses  are  silent,  now,  hein?  The  talk  has 
stopped.  To  a  great  actress  is  come  her  chance. 
There  is  not  too  much  noise  in  the  cafe-concert ! 

But,  when  she  finished!  What  an  uproar! 
Never  will  she  forget  it.  A  thousand  times  she 
has  told  the  story,  how  it  was  written — the  song 
— and  how  it  made  her  famous.  Before  two 
weeks  she  was  the  attraction  of  the  Ambassa- 
deurs,  and  all  Paris  has  raved  of  Paulette 
Fleury. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  COMIC  SONG       17 

Tricotrin  and  Pitou  were  mad  with  joy. 
Certainly  Paris  did  not  rave  of  Pitou  nor  Tri- 
cotrin— ^there  have  not  been  many  that  remem- 
bered who  wrote  the  song;  and  it  earned  no 
money  for  them,  either,  because  it  was  hers — 
the  gift  of  their  love.  Still,  they  were  enrap- 
tured. To  both  of  them  she  owed  equally,  and 
more  than  ever  it  was  a  question  which  would 
be  the  happy  man. 

Listen!  When  they  are  gone  to  call  on  her 
one  afternon  she  was  not  at  'ome.  What  had 
happened?  I  shall  tell  you.  There  was  a 
noodle,  rich — ^what  you  call  a  "Johnnie  in  the 
-Stalls" — ^who  became  infatuated  with  her  at  the 
Ambassadeurs.  He  whistled  "Partant  pour  le 
Moulin"  all  the  days,  and  went  to  hear  it  all 
the  nights.  Well,  she  was  not  at  'ome  because 
she  had  married  him.  Absolutely  they  were  mar- 
ried!   Her  lovers  have  been  told  it  at  the  door. 

What  a  moment!  Figure  yourself  what  they 
have  suffered,  both!  They  had  worshipped  her, 
they  had  made  sacrifices  for  her,  they  had  created 
for  her  her  grand  success ;  and,  as  a  consequence 
of  that  song,  she  was  the  wife  of  the  "Johnnie 
in  the  Stalls"! 

Far  down  the  street,  but  yet  distinct,  the  organ 


18  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

revived  the  tune  again.  My  Frenchman  shud- 
dered, and  got  up. 

"I  cannot  support  it,"  he  murmured.  "You 
understand?    The  associations  are  too, pathetic." 

"They  must  be  harrowing,"  I  said.  "Before 
you  go,  there  is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask 
you,  if  I  may.  Have  I  had  the  honour  of  meet- 
ing monsieur  Tricotrin,  or  monsieur  Pitou?" 

He  stroked  his  hat,  and  gazed  at  me  in  sad 
surprise.  "Ah,  but  neither,  monsieur,"  he 
groaned.  "The  associations  are  much  more 
'arrowing  than  that — I  was  the  'Johnnie  in  the 
Stalls' I" 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS 

One  night  when  Pitou  went  home,  an  unac-- 
customed  perfume  floated  to  meet  him  on  the 
stairs.    He  cHmbed  them  in  amazement. 

''If  we  lived  in  an  age  of  miracles  I  should 
conclude  that  Tricotrin  was  smoking  a  cigar," 
he  said  to  himself.     ''What  can  it  be?" 

The  pair  occupied  a  garret  in  the  rue  des  Trois 
Freres  at  this  time,  where  their  window,  in  sore 
need  of  repairs,  commanded  an  unrivalled  view 
of  the  dirty  steps  descending  to  the  passage  des 
Abbesses.  To-night,  behold  Tricotrin  pacing 
the  garret  with  dignity,  between  his  lips  an 
Havannah  that  could  have  cost  no  less  than  a 
franc.    The  composer  iTibbed  his  eyes. 

"Have  they  made  you  an  Academician?"  he 
stammered.  "Or  has  your  uncle,  the  silk  manu- 
facturer, died  and  left  you  his  business?" 

"My  friend,"  replied  the  poet,  "prepare  your- 
self forthwith  for  'a  New  and  Powerful  Serial  of 
the  Most  Absorbing  Interest'!  I  am  no  longer 
the  young  man  who  went  out  this  evening — I 
am  a  celebrity/' 

19 


«0  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"'I  thought,"  said  the  composer,  ''that  it 
couldn't  be  you  when  I  saw  the  cigar." 

"Figure  yourself,"  continued  Tricotrin,  "that 
at  nine  o'clock  I  was  wandering  on  the  Grand 
Boulevard  with  a  thirst  that  could  have  con- 
sumed a  brewery.  I  might  mention  that  I  had 
also  empty  pockets,  but " 

"It  would  be  to  pad  the  powerful  Serial  shame- 
lessly," said  Pitou:  "there  are  things  that  one 
takes  for  granted." 

"At  the  corner  of  the  place  de  I'Opera  a 
fellow  passed  me  whom  I  knew  and  yet  did  not 
know ;  I  could  not  recall  where  it  was  we  had  met. 
I  turned  and  followed  him,  racking  my  brains 
the  while.     Suddenly  I  remembered " 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  the  composer,  "but 
I  have  read  Bel- Ami  myself.  Oh,  it  is  quite  evi- 
dent that  you  are  a  celebrity — ^you  have  already 
forgotten  how  to  be  original!" 

"There  is  a  resemblance,  it  is  true,"  admitted 
Tricotrin.  "However,  Maupassant  had  no  copy- 
right in  the  place  de  TOpera.  I  say  that  I 
remembered  the  man;  I  had  known  him  when  he 
was  in  the  advertisement  business  in  Lyons. 
Well,  we  have  supped  together;  he  is  in  a  jjosition 
to  do  me  a  service — he  will  ask  an  editor  to  pub- 
lish an  Interview  with  me!" 

"An  Interview?"  exclaimed  Pitou.    "You  are 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  21 

to  be  Interviewed?  Ah,  no,  my  poor  friend, 
too  much  meat  has  unhinged  your  reason!  Go 
to  sleep — you  will  be  hungry  and  sane  again 
to-morrow." 

"It  will  startle  some  of  them,  hein?  'Gustave 
Tricotrin  at  Home' — in  the  illustrated  edition  of 
Le  Demi-Motr" 

"Illustrated?"  gasped  Pitou.  He  looked 
round  the  attic.  "Did  I  understand  you  to  say 
'illustrated'?" 

"Well,  well,"  said  Tricotrin,  "we  shall  move 
the  beds!  And,  when  the  concierge  nods,  per- 
haps we  can  borrow  the  palm  from  the  portals. 
With  a  palm  and  an  amiable  photographer,  an 
air  of  splendour  is  easily  arrived  at.  I  should 
like  a  screen — we  will  raise  one  from  a  studio  in 
the  rue  Ravignan.  Mon  Dieu!  with  a  palm  and 
a  screen  I  foresee  the  most  opulent  eifects.  *A 
Corner  of  the  Study' — we  can  put  the  screen 
in  front  of  the  washhand-stand,  and  litter  the 
table  with  manuscripts — ^you  will  admit  that  we 
have  a  sufficiency  of  manuscripts? — no  one  will 
know  that  they  have  all  been  rejected.  Also,  a 
painter  in  the  rue  Ravignan  might  lend  us  a  few 
of  his  failures — 'Before  you  go,  let  me  show  you 
my  pictures,'  said  monsieur  Tricotrin:  'I  am  an 
ardent  collector'!" 

In  Montmartre  the  sight  of  two  "types"  shift- 


22  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

ing  household  gods  makes  no  sensation — the  sails 
of  the  remaining  windmills  still  revolve.  On  the 
day  that  it  had  its  likeness  taken,  the  attic  was 
temporarily  transformed.  At  least  a  score  of 
unappreciated  masterpieces  concealed  the  dilapi- 
dation of  the  walls;  the  broken  window  was 
decorated  with  an  Eastern  fabric  that  had  been 
a  cherished  "property"  of  half  the  ateliers  in 
Paris;  the  poet  himself — with  the  palm  droop- 
ing gracefully  above  his  head — mused  in  a  mas- 
sive chair,  in  which  Solomon  had  been  pronounc- 
ing judgment  until  12:15,  when  the  poet  had 
called  for  it.  The  appearance  of  exhaustion 
observed  by  admirers  of  the  poet's  portrait  was 
due  to  the  chair's  appalling  weight.  As  he  stag- 
gered under  it  up  the  steps  of  the  passage  des 
Abbesses,  the  young  man  had  feared  he  would 
expire  on  the  threshold  of  his  fame. 

However,  the  photographer  proved  as  re- 
sourceful as  could  be  desired,  and  perhaps  the 
most  striking  feature  of  the  illustration  was  the 
spaciousness  of  the  apartment  in  which  monsieur 
Tricotrin  was  presented  to  readers  of  Le  Demi- 
Mot.  The  name  of  the  thoroughfare  was  not 
obtruded. 

With  what  pride  was  that  issue  of  the  journal 
regarded  in  the  rue  des  Trois  Freres ! 

"Aha!"  cried  Tricotrin,  who  in  moments  per- 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  23 

suaded  himself  that  he  really  occupied  such  noble 
quarters,  ''those  who  repudiated  me  in  the  days 
of  my  struggles  will  be  a  little  repentant  now, 
hein?  Stone  Heart  will  discover  that  I  was  not 
wrong  in  relying  on  my  genius!" 

"I  assume,"  said  Pitou,  "that  'Stone  Heart' 
is  your  newest  pet-name  for  the  silk-manufac- 
turing uncle?" 

"You  catch  my  meaning  precisely.  I  propose 
to  send  a  copy  of  the  paper  to  Lyons,  with  the 
Interview  artistically  bordered  by  laurels ;  I  can- 
not draw  laurels  myself,  but  there  are  plenty  of 
persons  who  can.  We  will  find  someone  to  do 
it  when  we  palter  with  starvation  at  the  Cafe  du 
Bel  Avenir  this  evening — or  perhaps  we  had 
better  fast  at  the  Lucullus  Junior,  instead ;  there 
is  occasionally  some  ink  in  the  bottle  there.  I 
shall  put  the  address  in  the  margin — ^my  uncle 
will  not  know  where  it  is,  and  on  the  grounds 
of  euphony  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  it.  It 
would  not  surprise  me  if  I  received  an  affection- 
ate letter  and  a  bank-note  in  reply — ^the  per- 
versity of  human  nature  delights  in  generosities 
to  the  prosperous." 

"It  is  a  fact,"  said  Pitou.  "That  human 
nature!" 

"Who  knows? — ^he  may  even  renew  the  allow- 
ance that  he  used  to  make  me!" 


24  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Upon  my  word,  more  unlikely  things  have 
happened,"  Pitou  conceded. 

"Mon  Dieu,  Nicolas,  we  shall  again  have 
enough  to  eat!" 

"Ah,  visionary!"  exclaimed  Pitou;  "are  there 
no  bounds  to  your  imagination?" 

Now,  the  perversity  to  which  the  poet  referred 
did  inspire  monsieur  Rigaud,  of  Lyons,  to  loosen 
his  purse-strings.  He  wrote  that  he  rejoiced  to 
learn  that  Gustave  was  beginning  to  make  his 
way,  and  enclosed  a  present  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  francs.  More,  after  an  avuncular  preamble 
which  the  poet  skipped — ^having  a  literary  hatred 
of  digression  in  the  works  of  others — he  even 
hinted  that  the  allowance  might  be  resumed. 

What  a  banquet  there  was  in  bohemia !  How 
the  glasses  jingled  afterwards  in  La  Lune 
Rousse,  and  oh,  the  beautiful  hats  that  Germaine 
and  Marcelle  displayed  on  the  next  fine  Sunday! 
Even  when  the  last  ripples  of  the  splash  were 
stilled,  the  comrades  swaggered  gallantly  on  the 
boulevard  Rochechouart,  for  by  any  post  might 
not  the  first  instalment  of  that  allowance 
arrive? 

Weeks  passed;  and  Tricotrin  began  to  say, 
"It  looks  to  me  as  if  we  needed  another  Inter- 
view!" 

And  then  came  a  letter  which  was  no  less 


I 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  25 

cordial  than  its  predecessor,  but  which  stunned 
the  unfortunate  recipient  like  a  warrant  for  his 
execution.  Monsieur  Rigaud  stated  that  busi- 
ness would  bring  him  to  Paris  on  the  following 
evening  and  that  he  anticipated  the  pleasure  of 
visiting  his  nephew;  he  trusted  that  his  dear 
Gustave  would  meet  him  at  the  station.  The 
poet  and  composer  stared  at  each  other  with 
bloodless  faces. 

"You  must  call  at  his  hotel  instead,"  faltered 
Pitou  at  last. 

"But  you  may  be  sure  he  will  wish  to  see  my 
elegant  abode." 

"  'It  is  in  the  hands  of  the  decorators.  How 
unfortunate!' " 

"He  would  propose  to  offer  them  suggestions; 
he  is  a  born  suggester." 

"  'Fever  is  raging  in  the  house — a  most  infec- 
tious fever' ;  we  will  ask  a  medical  student  to  give 
us  one." 

"It  would  not  explain  my  lodging  in  a  slum 
meanwhile." 

"Well,  let  us  admit  that  there  is  nothing  to 
be  done;  you  will  have  to  own  up!" 

"Are  you  insane?  Jt  is  improvident  youths 
like  you  who  come  to  lament  their  wasted  lives. 
If  I  could  receive  him  this  once  as  he  expects  to 
be  received,  we  cannot  doubt  that  it  would  mean 


26  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

an  income  of  two  thousand  francs  to  me.  Pros- 
perity dangles  before  us — shall  I  fail  to  clutch  it? 
Mon  Dieu,  what  a  catastrophe,  his  coming  to 
Paris!  Why  cannot  he  conduct  his  business  in 
Lyons?  Is  there  not  enough  money  in  the  city 
of  Lyons  to  satisfy  him?  O  grasper!  what 
greed !  Nicolas,  my  more  than  brother,  if  it  were 
night  when  I  took  him  to  a  sumptuous  apart- 
ment, he  might  not  notice  the  name  of  the  street 
— I  could  talk  brilliantly  as  we  turned  the  corner. 
Also  I  could  scintillate  as  I  led  him  away.  He 
would  never  know  that  it  was  not  the  rue  des 
Trois  Freres." 

*'You  are  right,"  agreed  Pitou;  "but  which  is 
the  pauper  in  our  social  circle  whose  sumptuous 
apartment  you  propose  to  acquire?" 

"One  must  consider,"  said  Tricotrin.  "Obvi- 
ously, I  am  compelled  to  entertain  in  somebody's; 
fortunately,  I  have  two  days  to  find  it  in.  I  shall 
now  go  forth!" 

It  was  a  genial  morning,  and  the  first  person 
he  accosted  in  the  rue  Ravignan  was  Goujaud, 
painting  in  the  patch  of  garden  before  the 
studios.  "Tell  me,  Goujaud,"  exclaimed  the 
poet,  "have  you  any  gilded  acquaintance  who 
would  permit  me  the  use  of  his  apartment  for 
two  hours  to-morrow  evening?" 

Goujaud  reflected  for  some  seconds,  with  his 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  27 

head  to  one  side.  "I  have  never  done  anything 
so  fine  as  this  before,"  he  observed;  "regard  the 
atmosphere  of  it!" 

''It  is  execrable!"  replied  Tricotrin,  and  went 
next  door  to  Flamant.  ''My  old  one,"  he  ex- 
plained, "I  have  urgent  need  of  a  regal  apart- 
ment for  two  hours  to-morrow — have  you  a 
wealthy  friend  who  would  accommodate  me?" 

"You  may  beautify  your  bedroom  with  all  my 
possessions,"  returned  Flamant  heartily.  "I 
have  a  stuffed  parrot  that  is  most  decorative, 
but  I  have  not  a  friend  that  is  wealthy." 

"You  express  yourself  like  a  First  Course  for 
the  Foreigner,"  said  Tricotrin,  much  annoyed. 
"Devil  take  your  stuffed  parrot!" 

The  heat  of  the  sun  increased  towards  middav, 
and  drops  began  to  trickle  under  the  young  man's 
hat.  By  four  o'clock  he  had  called  upon  sixty- 
two  persons,  exclusive  of  Sanquereau,  whom  he 
had  been  unable  to  wake.  He  bethought  him- 
self of  Lajeunie,  the  novelist;  but  Lajeunie  could 
offer  him  nothing  more  serviceable  than  a  pass 
for  the  Elysee-Montmartre.  "Nbw  how  is  it 
possible  that  I  spend  my  life  among  such  imbe- 
ciles?" groaned  the  unhappy  poet;  "one  offers 
me  a  parrot,  and  another  a  pass  for  a  dancing- 
hall!  Can  I  assure  my  uncle,  who  is  a  married 
man,  and  produces  silk  in  vast  quantities,  that 


28  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

I  reside  in  a  dancing-hall?  Besides,  we  know 
those  passes — ^they  are  available  only  for  ladies." 

"It  is  true  that  you  could  not  get  in  by  it/* 
assented  Lajeunie,  ''but  I  give  it  to  you  freely. 
Take  it,  my  poor  fellow !  Though  it  may  appear 
inadequate  to  the  occasion,  who  knows  but  what 
it  will  prove  to  be  the  basis  of  a  fortune?" 

"You  are  as  crazy  as  the  stories  you  write," 
said  Tricotrin.  "Still,  it  can  go  in  my  pocket." 
And  he  made,  exhausted,  for  a  bench  in  the  place 
Dancourt,  where  he  apostrophised  his  fate. 

Thus  occupied,  he  fell  asleep;  and  presently  a 
young  woman  sauntered  from  the  sidewalk  across 
the  square.  In  the  shady  little  place  Dancourt 
is  the  little  white  Theatre  Montmartre,  and  she 
jfirst  perused  the  play-bill,  and  then  contemplated 
the  sleeping  poet.  It  may  have  been  that  she 
found  something  attractive  in  his  bearing,  or  it 
may  have  been  that  ragamuffins  sprawled  else- 
where; but,  having  determined  to  wait  awhile, 
she  selected  the  bench  on  which  he  reposed,  and 
forthwith  woke  him. 

"Now  this  is  nice!"  he  exclaimed,  realising 
his  lapse  with  a  start. 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  said  she,  blushing. 

"Pardon;  I  referred  to  my  having  dozed  when 
every  moment  is  of  consequence,"  he  explained. 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  29 

"And  yet,"  he  went  on  ruefully,  "upon  my  soul, 
I  cannot  conjecture  where  I  shall  go  next!" 

Her  response  was  so  sympathetic  that  it 
tempted  him  to  remain  a  little  longer,  and  in  five 
minutes  she  was  recounting  her  own  perplexities. 
It  transpired  that  she  was  a  lady's-maid  with  a 
holiday,  and  the  problem  before  her  was  whether 
to  spend  her  money  on  a  theatre,  or  on  a  ball. 

"Now  that  is  a  question  which  is  disposed  of 
instantly,"  said  Tricotrin.  "You  shall  spend 
your  money  on  a  theatre,  and  go  to  a  ball  as 
well."  And  out  fluttered  the  pink  pass  presented 
to  him  by  Lajeunie. 

The  girl's  tongue  was  as  lively  as  her  gratitude. 
She  was,  she  told  him,  maid  to  the  famous 
Colette  Aubray,  who  had  gone  unattended  that 
afternoon  to  visit  the  owner  of  a  villa  in  the 
country,  where  she  would  stay  until  the  next  day 
but  one.  "So  you  see,  monsieur,  we  poor  ser- 
vants are  left  alone  in  the  flat  to  amuse  ourselves 
as  best  we  can!" 

"Mon  Dieu!"  ejaculated  Tricotrin,  and  added 
mentally,  "It  was  decidedly  the  good  kind  fairies 
that  pointed  to  this  bench!" 

He  proceeded  to  pay  the  young  woman  such 
ardent  attentions  that  she  assumed  he  meant  to 
accompany  her  to  the  ball,  and  her  disappoint- 
ment was  extreme  when  he  had  to  own  that  the 


30  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

state  of  his  finances  forbade  it.  "All  I  can  sug- 
gest, my  dear  J^eonie,"  he  concluded,  "is  that  I 
shall  be  your  escort  when  you  leave.  It  is  abom- 
inable that  you  must  have  other  partners  in  the 
meantime,  but  I  feel  that  you  will  be  constant  to 
me  in  your  thoughts,  I  shall  have  much  to  tell 
you — I  shall  whisper  a  secret  in  your  ear;  for, 
incredible  as  it  may  sound,  my  sweet  child,  you 
alone  in  Paris  have  the  power  to  save  me!" 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  faltered  the  admiring  lady's- 
maid,  "it  has  always  been  my  great  ambition  to 
save  a  young  man,  especially  a  young  man  who 
used  such  lovely  language.  I  am  sure,  by  the 
way  you  talk,  that  you  must  be  a  poet!" 

"Extraordinary,"  mused  Tricotrin,  "that  all 
the  world  recognises  me  as  a  poet,  excepting 
when  it  reads  my  poetry!"  And  this  led  him  to 
reflect  that  he  must  sell  some  of  it,  in  order  to 
provide  refreshment  for  Leonie  before  he  begged 
her  aid.  Accordingly,  he  arranged  to  meet  her 
when  the  ball  finished,  and  limped  back  to  the 
attic,  where  he  made  up  a  choice  assortment  of 
his  wares. 

He  had  resolved  to  try  the  office  of  Le  Demi- 
Mot;  but  his  reception  there  was  cold.  "You 
should  not  presume  on  our  good  nature,"  de- 
murred the  Editor;  "only  last  month  we  had  an 
article  on  you,  saying  that  you  were  highly  tal- 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  31 

ented,  and  now  you  ask  us  to  publish  your  work 
besides.    There  must  be  a  limit  to  such  things." 

He  examined  the  collection,  nevertheless,  with 
a  depreciatory  countenance,  and  offered  ten 
francs  for  three  of  the  finest  specimens.  "From 
Le  Demi-Mot  I  would  counsel  you  to  accept  low 
terms,"  he  said,  with  engaging  interest,  "on 
account  of  the  prestige  you  derive  from  appear- 
ing in  it." 

"In  truth  it  is  a  noble  thing,  prestige,"  ad- 
mitted Tricotrin;  "but,  monsieur,  I  have  never 
known  a  man  able  to  make  a  meal  of  it  when  he 
was  starving,  or  to  warm  himself  before  it  when 
he  was  without  a  fire.  Still — ^though  it  is  a 
jumble-sale  price — let  them  go!" 

"Payment  will  be  made  in  due  course,"  said 
the  Editor,  and  became  immersed  in  correspond- 
ence. 

Tricotrin  paled  to  the  lips,  and  the  next  five 
minutes  were  terrible;  indeed,  he  did  not  doubt 
that  he  would  have  to  limp  elsewhere.  At  last 
he  cried,  "Well,  let  us  say  seven  francs,  cash! 
Seven  francs  in  one's  fist  are  worth  ten  in  due 
course."    And  thus  the  bargain  was  concluded. 

"It  was  well  for  Hercules  that  none  of  his 
labours  was  the  extraction  of  payment  from  an 
editor!"  panted  the  poet  on  the  doorstep.  But 
he  was  now  enabled  to  fete  the  lady's-maid  in 


32  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

grand  style,  and — not  to  be  outdone  in  generosity 
— she  placed  mademoiselle  Aubray's  flat  at  his 
disposal  directly  he  asked  for  it. 

"You  have  accomplished  a  miracle!"  averred 
Pitou,  in  the  small  hours,  when  he  heard  the  n^ws. 

Tricotrin  waved  a  careless  hand.  ''To  a  man 
of  resource  all  things  are  possible!"  he  mur- 
mured. 

The  next  evening  the  silk  manufacturer  was 
warmly  embraced  on  the  platform,  and  not  a 
little  surprised  to  learn  that  his  nephew  expected 
a  visit  at  once.  However,  the  young  man's 
consternation  was  so  profound  when  objections 
were  made  that,  in  the  end,  they  were  withdrawn. 
Tricotrin  directed  the  driver  after  monsieur 
Rigaud  was  in  the  cab,  and,  on  their  reaching  the 
courtyard,  there  was  Leonie,  all  frills,  ready  to 
carry  the  handbag. 

"Your  servant?"  inquired  monsieur  Rigaud, 
with  some  disapproval,  as  they  went  upstairs; 
"she  is  rather  fancifully  dressed,  hein?" 

"Is  it  so?"  answered  Tricotrin.  "Perhaps  a 
bachelor  is  not  sufficiently  observant  in  these 
matters.  Still,  she  is  an  attentive  domestic. 
Take  off  your  things,  my  dear  uncle,  and  make 
yourself  at  home.  What  joy  it  gives  me  to  see 
you  here!" 

"Mon  Dieu,"  exclaimed  the  silk  manufacturer, 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  33 

looking  about  him,  "you  have  a  place  fit  for  a 
prince!    It  must  have  cost  a  pretty  penny." 

"Between  ourselves,"  said  Tricotrin,  "I  often 
reproach  myself  for  what  I  spent  on  it ;  I  could 
make  very  good  use  to-day  of  some  of  the  money 
I  squandered." 

"What  curtains!"  murmured  monsieur  Hi- 
gaud,  fingering  the  silk  enraptured.  "The  qual- 
ity is  superb !  What  may  they  have  charged  you 
for  these  curtains?" 

"It  was  years  ago — ^upon  my  word  I  do  not 
remember,"  drawled  Tricotrin,  who  had  no  idea 
whether  he  ought  to  say  five  hundred  francs,  or 
five  thousand.  "Also,  you  must  not  think  I 
have  bought  everything  you  see — ^many  of  the 
pictures  and  bronzes  are  presents  from  admirers 
of  my  work.    It  is  gratifying,  hein?" 

"I — I To  confess  the  truth,  we  had  not 

heard  of  your  triumphs,"  admitted  monsieur 
Rigaud;  "I  did  not  dream  you  were  so  success- 
ful." 

"Ah,  it  is  in  a  very  modest  way,"  Tricotrin 
replied.  "I  am  not  a  millionaire,  I  assure  you! 
On  the  contrary,  it  is  often  difficult  to  make  both 
ends  meet — although,"  he  added  hurriedly,  "I 
live  with  the  utmost  economy,  my  uncle.  The 
days  of  my  thoughtlessness  are  past.     A  man 


84  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

should  save,  a  man  should  provide  for  the 
future." 

At  this  moment  he  was  astonished  to  see 
Leonie  open  the  door  and  announce  that  dinner 
was  served.  She  had  been  even  better  than  her 
word. 

"Dinner?"  cried  monsieur  Rigaud.  "Ah,  now 
I  understand  why  you  were  so  dejected  when  I 
would  not  come!" 

"Bah,  it  will  be  a  very  simple  meal,"  said  his 
nephew,  "but  after  a  journey  one  must  eat.  Let 
us  go  in."  He  was  turning  the  wrong  way,  but 
Leonie's  eye  saved  him. 

"Come,"  he  proceeded,  taking  his  seat,  "some 
soup — some  good  soup!  What  will  you  drink, 
my  uncle?" 

"On  the  sideboard  I  see  champagne,"  chuckled 
monsieur  Rigaud;  "you  treat  the  old  man  well, 
you  rogue!" 

"Hah,"  said  Tricotrin,  who  had  not  observed 
it,  "the  cellar,  I  own,  is  an  extravagance  of 
mine!  Alone,  I  drink  only  mineral  waters,  or 
a  Httle  claret,  much  diluted;  but  to  my  dearest 
friends  I  must  give  the  dearest  wines.  Leonie, 
champagne!" 

It  was  a  capital  dinner,  and  the  cigars  and 
cigarettes  that  Leonie  put  on  the  table  with  the 
coffee  were  of  the  highest  excellence.    Agreeable 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  35 

conversation  whiled  away  some  hours,  and 
Tricotrin  began  to  look  for  his  uncle  to  get  up. 
But  it  was  raining  smartly,  and  monsieur  Rigaud 
was  reluctant  to  bestir  himself.  Another  hour 
lagged  by,  and  at  last  Tricotrin  faltered: 

''I  fear  I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me  for  leav- 
ing you,  my  uncle ;  it  is  most  annoying,  but  I  am 
compelled  to  go  out.  The  fact  is,  I  have  con- 
sented to  collaborate  with  Capus,  and  he  is  so 
eccentric,  this  dear  Alfred — we  shall  be  at  work 
all  night." 

''Go,  my  good  Gustave,"  said  his  uncle  readily; 
"and,  as  I  am  very  tired,  if  you  have  no  objection, 
I  will  occupy  your  bed." 

Tricotrin's  jaw  dropped,  and  it  was  by  a 
supreme  effort  that  he  stammered  how  pleased 
the  arrangement  would  make  him.  To  intensify 
the  fix,  Leonie  and  the  cook  had  disappeared — 
doubtless  to  the  mansarde  in  which  they  slept — 
and  he  was  left  to  cope  with  the  catastrophe 
alone.  However,  having  switched  on  the  lights, 
he  conducted  the  elderly  gentleman  to  an  en- 
ticing apartment.  He  wished  him  an  affectionate 
"good-night,"  and  after  promising  to  wake  him 
early,  made  for  home,  leaving  the  manufacturer 
sleepily  surveying  the  room's  imperial  splendour. 

"What  magnificence!"  soliloquised  monsieur 
Rigaud.     "What  toilet  articles!"     He  got  into 


36  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

bed.  "What  a  coverlet — ^there  must  be  twenty 
thousand  francs  on  top  of  me!" 

He  had  not  slumbered  under  them  long  when 
he  was  aroused  by  such  a  commotion  that  he 
feared  for  the  action  of  his  heart.  Blinking  in 
the  glare,  he  perceived  Leonie  in  scanty  attire, 
distracted  on  her  knees — and,  by  the  bedside, 
a  beautiful  lady  in  a  travelling  cloak,  raging  with 
the  air  of  a  lioness. 

"Go  away!"  quavered  the  manufacturer. 
"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  intrusion?" 

"Intrusion?"  raved  the  lady.  "That  is  what 
you  will  explain,  monsieur!  How  comes  it  that 
you  are  in  my  bed?" 

"Yours?"  ejaculated  monsieur  Rigaud. 
"What  is  it  you  say?  You  are  making  a  grave 
error,  for  which  you  will  apologise,  madame!" 

"Ah,  hold  me  back,"  pleaded  the  lady,  throw- 
ing up  her  eyes,  "hold  me  back  or  I  shall  assault 
him!"  She  flung  to  Leonie.  "Wretched  girl, 
you  shall  pay  Tor  this !  Not  content  with  lavish- 
ing my  champagne  and  my  friend's  cigars  on 
your  lover,  you  must  put  him  to  recuperate  in 
my  room!" 

"Oh!"  gasped  the  manufacturer,  and  hid  his 
head  under  the  priceless  coverlet.  "Such  an 
imputation  is  unpardonable,"  he  roared,  reap- 
pearing.   "I  am  monsieur  Rigaud,  of  Lyons;  the 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  37 

flat  belongs  to  my  nephew,  monsieur  Tricotrin; 
I  request  you  to  retire!" 

"Imbecile!"  screamed  the  lady;  ''the  flat  be- 
longs to  me — Colette  Aubray.  And  your  pres- 
ence may  ruin  me — I  expect  a  visitor  on  most  im- 
portant business!  He  has  not  my  self-control; 
if  he  finds  you  here  he  will  most  certainly  send 
you  a  challenge.  He  is  the  best  swordsman  in 
Paris !  I  advise  you  to  believe  me,  for  you  have 
just  five  minutes  to  save  your  life!" 

''Monsieur,"  wailed  Leonie,  "you  have  been 
deceived!"  And,  between  her  sobs,  she  confessed 
the  circumstances,  which  he  heard  with  the 
greatest  difiiculty,  owing  to  the  chattering  of  his 
teeth. 

The  rain  was  descending  in  cataracts  when 
monsieur  Rigaud  got  outside,  but  though  the 
trams  and  the  trains  had  both  stopped  running, 
and  cabs  were  as  dear  as  radium,  his  fury  was  so 
tempestuous  that  nothing  could  deter  him  from 
reaching  the  poet's  real  abode.  His  attack  on 
the  front  door  warned  Tricotrin  and  Pitou  what 
had  happened,  and  they  raised  themselves, 
blanched,  from  their  pillows,  to  receive  his  curses. 
It  was  impossible  to  reason  with  him,  and  he 
launched  the  most  frightful  denunciation  at  his 
nephew  for  an  hour,  when  the  abatement  of  the 
dovmpour  permitted  him  to  depart.     More,  at 


88  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

noon,  who  should  arrive  but  Leonie  in  tears! 
She  had  been  dismissed  from  her  employment, 
and  came  to  beg  the  poet  to  intercede  for  her. 

"What  calamities!"  groaned  Tricotrin.  "How 
fruitless  are  man's  noblest  endeavours  without 
the  favouring  breeze!  I  shall  drown  myself  at 
eight  o'clock.  However,  I  will  readily  plead  for 
you  first,  if  your  mistress  will  receive  me." 

By  the  maid's  advice  he  presented  himself  late 
in  the  day,  and  when  he  had  cooled  his  heels  in 
the  salon  for  some  time,  a  lady  entered,  who  was 
of  such  ravishing  appearance  that  his  head  swam. 

"Monsieur  Tricotrin?"  she  inquired  haughtily. 
"I  have  heard  your  name  from  your  uncle,  mon- 
sieur.   Are  you  here  to  visit  my  servant?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  faltered,  "I  am  here  to 
throw  myself  on  your  mercy.  At  eight  o'clock  I 
have  decided  to  commit  suicide,  for  I  am  ruined. 
The  only  hope  left  me  is  to  win  your  pardon 
before  I  die." 

"I  suppose  your  uncle  has  disowned  you?"  she 
said.  "Naturally!  It  was  a  pretty  situation  to 
put  him  in.  How  would  you  care  to  be  in  it 
yourself?" 

"Alas,  mademoiselle,''  sighed  Tricotrin,  "there 
are  situations  to  which  a  poor  poet  may  not 
aspire !" 

After  regarding  him  silently  she  exclaimed,  "I 


TRICOTRIN  ENTERTAINS  39 

cannot  understand  what  a  boy  with  eyes  like 
yours  saw  in  Leonie?" 

"Merely  good  nature  and  a  means  to  an  end, 
believe  me!  If  you  would  ease  my  last  moments, 
reinstate  her  in  your  service.  Do  not  let  me 
drown  with  the  knowledge  that  another  is  suffer- 
ing for  my  fault!  Mademoiselle,  I  entreat  you 
— ^take  her  back!" 

"And  why  should  I  ease  your  last  moments?" 
she  demurred. 

"Because  I  have  no  right  to  ask  it;  because  I 
have  no  defence  for  my  sin  towards  you ;  because 
you  would  be  justified  in  trampling  on  me — and 
to  pardon  would  be  sublime !" 

"You  are  very  eloquent  for  my  maid,"  re- 
turned the  lady. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Ah,  no — I  fear  I  am 
pleading  for  myself.  For,  if  you  reinstate  the 
girl,  it  will  prove  that  you  forgive  the  man — and 
I  want  your  forgiveness  so  much!"  He  fell  at 
her  feet. 

"Does  your  engagement  for  eight  o'clock 
press,  monsieur?"  murmured  the  lady,  smiling. 
"If  you  could  dine  here  again  to-night,  I  might 
relent  by  degrees." 

"And  she  is  adorable!"  he  told  Pitou.  "I 
passed  the  most  delicious  evening  of  my  life !" 


40  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"It  is  fortunate,"  observed  Pitou,  "for  that, 
and  your  uncle's  undying  enmity,  are  all  you  have 
obtained  by  your  imposture.  Remember  that  the 
evening  cost  two  thousand  francs  a  year!" 

"Ah,  misanthrope,"  cried  Tricotrin  radiantly, 
"there  must  be  a  crumpled  roseleaf  in  every 
Eden!" 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE 

Before  Pitou,  the  composer,  left  for  the 
Hague,  he  called  on  Theophile  de  Fronsac,  the 
poet.  La  Voix  Parisienne  had  lately  appointed 
de  Fronsac  to  its  staff,  on  condition  that  he  con- 
tributed no  poetry. 

"Good-evening,"  said  de  Fronsac.  *'Mon 
Dieu!  what  shall  I  write  about?" 

''Write  about  my  music,"  said  Pitou,  whose 
compositions  had  been  rejected  in  every  arron- 
dissement  of  Paris. 

''Let  us  talk  sanely,"  demurred  de  Fronsac. 
"Mv  causerie  is  half  a  column  short.  Tell  me 
something  interesting." 

"Woman!"  replied  Pitou. 

De  Fronsac  flicked  his  cigarette  ash.  "You 
remind  me,"  he  said,  "how  much  I  need  a  love 
affair;  my  sensibilities  should  be  stimulated.  To 
continue  to  write  with  fervour  I  require  to  adore 
again." 

"It  is  very  easy  to  adore,"  observed  Pitou. 

"Not  at  forty,"  lamented,  the  other;  "espe- 

41 


42  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

cially  to  a  man  in  Class  A.  Don't  forget,  my 
young  friend,  that  I  have  loved  and  been  loved 
persistently  for  twenty-three  years.  I  cannot 
adore  a  repetition,  and  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  discover  a  new  type." 

"All  of  which  I  understand,"  said  Pitou,  "ex- 
cepting 'Class  A.' " 

"There  are  three  kinds  of  men,"  explained  the 
poet.  "Class  A  are  the  men  to  whom  women 
inevitably  surrender.  Class  B  consists  of  those 
whom  they  trust  by  instinct  and  confide  in  on 
the  second  day;  these  men  acquire  an  extensive 
knowledge  of  the  sex — but  they  always  fall  short 
of  winning  the  women  for  themselves.  Class  C 
women  think  of  merely  as  'the  others' — ^they  do 
not  count;  eventually  they  marry,  and  try  to 
persuade  their  wives  that  they  were  devils  of 
fellows  when  they  were  young.  However,  such 
reflections  will  not  assist  me  to  finish  my  causerie, 
for  I  wrote  them  all  last  week." 

"Talking  of  women,"  remarked  Pitou,  "a 
little  blonde  has  come  to  live  opposite  our  lodg- 
ing. So  far  we  have  only  bowed  from  our  win- 
dows, but  I  have  christened  her  *Lynette,'  and 
Tricotrin  has  made  a  poem  about  her.  It  is 
pathetic.  The  last  verse — ^the  others  are  not 
written  yet — ^goes : 


I 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  43 

"  'O  window  I  watched  in  the  days  that  are  dead. 

Are  you  watched  by  a  lover  to-day  ? 
Are  glimpses  caught  now  of  another  blonde  head 

By  a  youth  who  lives  over  the  way? 
Does  she  repeat  words  that  Lynette's  lips  have  said — 

And  does  he  say  what  I  used  to  say?'  " 

'*What  is  the  answer?"  asked  de  Fronsac.  "Is 
it  a  conundrum?  In  any  case  it  is  a  poor  sub- 
stitute for  a  half  a  column  of  prose  in  La  Voix. 
How  on  earth  am  I  to  arrive  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page?  If  I  am  short  in  my  copy,  I  shall  be  short 
in  my  rent ;  if  I  am  short  in  my  rent,  I  shall  be 
put  out  of  doors ;  if  I  am  put  out  of  doors,  I  shall 
die  of  exposure.  And  much  good  it  will  do  me 
that  they  erect  a  statue  to  me  in  the  next  genera- 
tion !  Upon  my  word,  I  would  stand  a  dinner — 
at  the  two-franc  place  where  you  may  eat  all 
you  can  hold — if  you  could  give  me  a  subject." 

''It  happens,"  said  Pitou,  ''that  I  can  give  you 
a  very  strange  one.  As  I  am  going  to  a  foreign 
land,  I  have  been  to  the  country  to  bid  farewell 
to  my  parents;  I  came  across  an  extraordinary 
girl." 

"One  who  disHked  presents?"  inquired  de 
Fronsac. 

"I  am  not  jesting.  She  is  a  dancer  in  a 
travelling  circus.  The  flare  and  the  drum  wooed 
me  one  night,  and  I  went  in.    As  a  circus,  well, 


44  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

you  may  imagine — a  tent  in  a  fair.  My  f auteuil 
was  a  plank,  and  the  orchestra  surpassed  the 
worst  tortures  of  the  Inquisition.  And  then, 
after  the  decrepit  horses,  and  a  mangy  Hon,  a 
girl  came  into  the  ring,  with  the  most  marvellous 
eyes  I  have  ever  seen  in  a  human  face.  They 
are  green  eyes,  with  golden  lights  in  them." 

"Really?"  murmured  the  poet.  "I  have  never 
been  loved  by  a  girl  who  had  green  eyes  with 
golden  lights  in  them." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  never  been  loved  by  this 
one,"  returned  the  composer  gravely;  "she  has 
a  curious  history.  All  her  lovers,  without  excep- 
tion, have  committed  suicide." 

"What?"  said  de  Fronsac,  staring. 

"It  is  very  queer.  One  of  them  had  just 
inherited  a  hundred  thousand  francs — he  hanged 
himself.  Another,  an  author  from  Italy,  took 
poison,  while  all  Rome  was  reading  his  novel. 
To  be  infatuated  by  her  is  harmless  enough,  but 
to  win  her  is  invariably  fatal  within  a  few  weeks. 
Some  time  ago  she  attached  herself  to  one  of  the 
troupe,  and  soon  afterwards  he  discovered  she 
was  deceiving  him.  He  resolved  to  shoot  her. 
He  pointed  a  pistol  at  her  breast.  She  simply 
laughed — and  looked  at  him.  He  turned  the 
pistol  on  himself,  and  blew  his  brains  out!" 

De  Fronsac  had  already  written :    "Here  is  the 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  45 

extraordinary  history  of  a  girl  whom  I  discovered 
in  a  fair."    The  next  moment : 

"But  you  repeat  a  rumour,"  he  objected. 
^'La  Voice  Parisienne  has  a  reputation;  odd  as  the 
fact  may  appear  to  you,  people  read  it.  If  this 
is  published  in  La  Voix  it  will  attract  attention. 
Soon  she  will  be  promoted  from  a  tent  in  a  fair 
to  a  stage  in  Paris.  Well,  what  happens?  You 
tell  me  she  is  beautiful,  so  she  will  have  hundreds 
of  admirers.  Among  the  hundreds  there  will  be 
one  she  favours.  And  then?  Unless  he  com- 
mitted suicide  in  a  few  weeks,  the  paper  would 
be  proved  a  liar.  I  should  not  be  able  to  sleep 
of  nights  for  fear  he  would  not  kill  himself." 

"My  dear,"  exclaimed  Pitou  with  emotion, 
"would  I  add  to  your  anxieties?  Rather  than 
you  should  be  disturbed  by  anybody's  hving,  let 
us  dismiss  the  subject,  and  the  dinner,  and  talk 
of  my  new  Symphony,  On  the  other  hand,  I 
fail  to  see  that  the  paper's  reputation  is  your 
affair — it  is  not  your  wife ;  and  I  am  more  than 
usually  empty  to-day." 

"Your  argument  is  sound,"  said  de  Fronsac. 
"Besides,  the  Editor  refuses  my  poetry."  And 
he  wrote  without  cessation  for  ten  minutes. 

The  two-franc  table-d'hote  excelled  itself  that 
evening,  and  Pitou  did  ample  justice  to  the  menu. 

Behold  how  capricious  is  the  j  ade.  Fame !    The 


46  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

poet  whose  verses  had  left  him  obscure,  accom- 
pKshed  in  ten  minutes  a  paragraph  that  fasci- 
nated all  Paris.  On  the  morrow  people  pointed 
it  out  to  one  another;  the  morning  after,  other 
journals  referred  to  it;  in  the  afternoon  the 
Editor  of  La  Voix  Parisienne  was  importuned 
with  questions.  No  one  believed  the  story  to  be 
true,  but  not  a  soul  could  help  wondering  if  it 
might  be  so. 

When  a  day  or  two  had  passed,  Pitou  received 
from  de  Fronsac  a  note  which  ran: 

''Send  to  me  at  once,  I  entreat  thee,  the  name 
of  that  girl,  and  say  where  she  can  be  found. 
The  managers  of  three  variety  theatres  of  the 
first  class  have  sought  me  out  and  are  eager  to. 
engage  her." 

''Decidedly,"  said  Pitou,  "I  have  mistaken  my 
vocation — I  ought  to  have  been  a  novelist !"  And 
he  replied: 

"The  girl  whose  eyes  suggested  the  story  to 
me  is  called  on  the  programmes  'Florozonde.' 
For  the  rest,  I  know  nothing,  except  that  thou 
didst  offer  a  dinner  and  I  was  hungry." 

However,  when  he  had  written  this,  he  de- 
stroyed it. 

"Though  I  am  unappreciated  myself,  and  shall 
probably  conclude  in  the  Morgue,"  he  mused, 
"that  is  no  excuse  for  my  withholding  prosperity 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  47 

from  others.  Doubtless  the  poor  girl  would  re- 
joice to  appear  at  three  variety  theatres  of  the 
first  class,  or  even  at  one  of  them."  He  answered 
simply : 

''Her  name  is  Tlorozonde' ;  she  will  be  found 
in  a  circus  at  Chartres" — and  nearly  suffocated 
with  laughter. 

Then  a  little  later  the  papers  announced  that 
Mile.  Florozonde-^whose  love  by  a  strange  series 
of  coincidences  had  always  proved  fatal — ^would 
be  seen  at  La  Coupole.  Posters  bearing  the 
name  of  "Florozonde" — ^yellow  on  black — in- 
vaded the  boulevards.  Her  portrait  caused 
crowds  to  assemble,  and  ''That  girl  who,  they 
•say,  deals  death,  that  Florozonde!"  was  to  be 
heard  as  constantly  as  ragtime. 

By  now  Pitou  was  at  the  Hague,  his  necessities 
having  driven  him  into  the  employment  of  a 
Parisian  who  had  opened  a  shop  there  for  the 
sale  of  music  and  French  pianos.  When  he  read 
the  Paris  papers,  Pitou  trembled  so  violently 
that  the  onlookers  thought  he  must  have  ague. 
Hilarity  struggled  with  envy  in  his  breast.  "Ma 
foi!"  he  would  say  to  himself,  ''it  seems  that  my 
destiny  is  to  create  successes  for  others.  Here 
am  I,  exiled,  and  condemned  to  play  cadenzas 
all  day  in  a  piano  warehouse,  while  she  whom  I 
invented,  dances  jubilant  in  Paris.    I  do  not 


48  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

doubt  that  she  breakfasts  at  Armenonville,  and 
dines  at  Paillard's." 

And  it  was  a  fact  that  Florozonde  was  the 
fashion.  As  regards  her  eyes,  at  any  rate,  the 
young  man  had  not  exaggerated  more  than  was 
to  be  forgiven  in  an  artist ;  her  eyes  were  superb, 
supernatural;  and  now  that  the  spangled  finery 
of  a  fair  was  replaced  by  the  most  triumphant  of 
audacities — now  that  a  circus  band  had  been 
exchanged  for  the  orchestra  of  La  Coupole — she 
danced  as  she  had  not  danced  before.  You  say 
that  a  gorgeous  costume  cannot  improve  a 
woman's  dancing?  Let  a  woman  realise  that  you 
improve  her  appearance,  and  you  improve  every- 
thing that  she  can  do! 

Nevertheless  one  does  not  pretend  that  it  was 
owing  to  her  talent,  or  her  costume,  or  the  weird 
melody  proposed  by  the  chef  d'orchestre,  that  she 
became  the  rage.  Niot  at  all.  That  was  due  to 
her  reputation.  Sceptics  might  smile  and  mur- 
mur the  French  for  ''Rats!"  but,  again,  nobody 
could  say  positively  that  the  tragedies  had  not 
occurred.  And  above  all,  there  were  the  eyes — 
it  was  conceded  that  a  woman  with  eyes  like  that 
ought  to  be  abnormal.  La  Coupole  was  thronged 
every  night,  and  the  stage  doorkeeper  grew  rich, 
so  numerous  were  the  daring  spirits,  coquetting 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  49' 

with  death,  who  tendered  notes  inviting  the  Fatal 
One  to  supper. 

Somehow  the  suppers  were  rather  dreary. 
The  cause  may  have  been  that  the  guest  was 
handicapped  by  circumstances — ^to  be  good  com- 
pany without  discarding  the  fatal  air  was  ex- 
tremely difficult;  also  the  cause  may  have  been 
that  the  daring  spirits  felt  their  courage  forsake 
them  in  a  tete-a-tete ;  but  it  is  certain  that  once 
when  Florozonde  drove  home  in  the  small  hours 
to  the  tattered  aunt  who  lived  on  her,  she  ex- 
claimed violently  that,  "All  this  silly  fake  was 
giving  her  the  hump,  and  that  she  wished  she 
were  'on  the  road'  again,  with  a  jolly  good  fellow 
who  was  not  afraid  of  her!" 

Then  the  tattered  aunt  cooed  to  her,  reminding 
her  that  little  ducklings  had  run  to  her  abeady 
roasted,  and  adding  that  she  (the  tattered  aunt) 
had  never  heard  of  equal  luck  in  all  the  years  she 
had  been  in  the  show  business. 

"Ah,  zut!"  cried  Florozonde.  "It  does  not 
please  me  to  be  treated  as  if  I  had  scarlet  fever. 
If  I  lean  towards  a  man,  he  turns  pale." 

"Life  is  good,"  said  her  aunt  philosophically, 
"and  men  have  no  wish  to  die  for  the  sake  of 
an  embrace — remember  your  reputation !  II  f  aut 
souffrir  pour  etre  fatale.  Look  at  your  salary, 
sweetie — and  you  have  had  nothing  to  do  but 


50  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

hold  your  tongue!    Ah,  was  anything  ever  heard 
hke  it  ?    A  miracle  of  le  bon  Dieu !" 

"It  was  monsieur  de  Fronsac,  the  journalist,* 
who  started  it,"  said  Florozonde.  "I  supposed 
he  had  made  it  up,  to  give  me  a  lift ;  but,  ma  f oi, 
I  think  he  half  believes  it,  too !  What  can  have 
put  it  in  his  head?  I  have  a  mind  to  ask  him 
the  next  time  he  comes  behind." 

"What  a  madness!"  exclaimed  the  old 
woman;  "you  might  queer  your  pitch!  Never, 
never  perform  a  trick  with  a  confederate  when 
you  can  work  alone ;  that  is  one  of  the  first  rules 
of  life.  If  he  thinks  it  is  true,  so  much  the  better. 
Now  get  to  bed,  lovey,  and  think  of  pleasant 
things — what  did  you  have  for  supper?" 

Florozonde  was  correct  in  her  surmise — de 
Fronsac  did  half  believe  it,  and  de  Fronsac  was 
accordingly  much  perturbed.  Consider  his 
dilemma!  The  nature  of  his  pursuits  had  de- 
manded a  love  affair,  and  he  had  endeavoured 
conscientiously  to  comply,  for  the  man  was 
nothing  if  not  an  artist.  But,  as  he  had  said 
to  Pitou,  he  had  loved  so  much,  and  so  many, 
that  the  thing  was  practically  impossible  for  him. 
He  was  like  the  pastrycook's  boy  who  is  habitu- 
ated and  bilious.  Then  suddenly  a  new  type, 
which  he  had  despaired  of  finding,  was  displayed. 
His  curiosity  awoke;  and,  fascinated  in  the  first 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  51 

instance  by  her  ghastly  reputation,  he  was  fasci- 
nated gradually  by  her  physical  charms.  Again 
he  found  himself  enslaved  by  a  woman — and 
f  the  woman,  who  owed  her  fame  to  his  services, 
was  clearly  appreciative.  But  he  had  a  strong 
objection  to  committing  suicide. 

His  eagerness  for  her  love  was  only  equalled 
by  his  dread  of  what  might  happen  if  she  gave 
it  to  him.  Alternately  he  yearned,  and  shud- 
dered. On  Monday  he  cried,  "Idiot,  to  be 
frightened  by  such  blague!"  and  on  Tuesday 
he  told  himself,  "All  the  same,  there  may  be 
something  in  it!" 

It  was  thus  tortured  that  he  paid  his  respects 
to  Florozonde  at  the  theatre  on  the  evening  after 
she  complained  to  her  aunt.  She  was  in  her 
dressing-room,  making  ready  to  go. 

"You  have  danced  divinely,"  he  said  to  her. 
"There  is  no  longer  a  progranmie  at  La  Coupole 
— ^there  is  only  'Florozonde.'  " 

She  smiled  the  mysterious  smile  that  she  was 
cultivating.  "What  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself,  monsieur?  I  have  not  seen  you  all  the 
week." 

De  Fronsac  sighed  expressively.  "At  my  age 
one  has  the  wisdom  to  avoid  temptation." 

"May  it  not  be  rather  unkind  to  temptation?" 
she  suggested,  raising  her  marvellous  eyes. 


52  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

De  Fronsac  drew  a  step  back.  "Also  I  have 
had  a  great  deal  to  do,"  he  added  formally;  "I 
am  a  busy  man.    For  example,  much  as  I  should 

like  to  converse  with  you  now "    But  his 

resolution  forsook  him  and  he  was  unable  to  say 
that  he  had  looked  in  only  for  a  minute. 

''Much  as  you  would  like  to  converse  with 
me ?"  questioned  Florozonde. 

''I  ought,  by  rights,  to  be  seated  at  my  desk," 
he  concluded  lamely. 

''I  am  pleased  that  you  are  not  seated  at  your 
desk,"  she  said. 

"Because?"  murmured  de  Fronsac,  with  un- 
speakable emotions. 

"Because  I  have  never  thanked  you  enough 
for  your  interest  in  me,  and  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  I  remember."  She  gave  him  her  hand.  He 
held  it,  battling  with  terror. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  returned  tremulously, 
"when  I  wrote  the  causerie  you  refer  to,  my 
interest  in  you  was  purely  the  interest  of  a  jour- 
nalist, so  for  that  I  do  not  deserve  your  thanks. 
But  since  I  have  had  the  honour  to  meet  you 
I  have  experienced  an  interest  altogether  differ- 
ent; the  interest  of  a  man,  of  a — a "    Here 

hk  teeth  chattered,  and  he  paused. 

"Of  Si  what?"  she  asked  softly,  with  a  dreamy 
air. 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  63 

"Of  a  friend,"  he  muttered.  A  gust  of  fear 
had  made  the  "friend"  an  iceberg.  But  her  clasp 
tightened. 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said.  "Ah,  you  have  been 
good  to  me,  monsieur !  And  if,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, I  am  sometimes  sad,  I  am,  at  least,  never 
ungrateful." 

"You  are  sad?"  faltered  the  vacillating  vic- 
tim.   "Why?" 

Her  bosom  rose.  "Is  success  all  a  woman 
wants?" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  de  Fronsac,  in  an  impas- 
sioned quaver,  "is  that  not  life?  To  all  of  us 
there  is  the  unattainable — ^to  you,  to  me!" 

"To  you?"  she  murmured.  Her  eyes  were 
transcendental.  Admiration  and  alarm  tore  him 
in  halves. 

"In  truth,"  he  gasped,  "I  am  the  most  miser- 
able of  men!  What  is  genius,  what  is  fame,  when 
one  is  lonely  and  unloved?" 

She  moved  impetuously  closer — so  close  that, 
the  perfume  of  her  hair  intoxicated  him.  His 
heart  seemed  to  knock  against  his  ribs,  and  he 
felt  the  perspiration  burst  out  on  his  brow.  For 
an  instant  he  hesitated — on  the  edge  of  his  grave, 
he  thought.  Then  he  dropped  her  hand,  and 
backed  from  her.     "But  why  should  I  bore  you 


64  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

with  my  griefs?"  he  stammered.  "Au  revoir, 
mademoiselle!" 

Outside  the  stage  door  he  gave  thanks  for  his 
self-control.  Also,  pale  with  the  crisis,  he  regis- 
tered an  oath  not  to  approach  her  again. 

Meanwhile  the  expatriated  Pitou  had  remained 
disconsolate.  Though  the  people  at  the  Hague 
spoke  French,  they  said  foreign  things  to  him 
in  it.  He  missed  Montmartre — ^the  interests  of 
home.  While  he  waxed  eloquent  to  customers 
on  the  tone  of 'pianos,  or  the  excellence  of  rival 
composers'  melodies,  he  was  envying  Florozonde 
in  Paris.  Florozonde,  whom  he  had  created, 
obsessed  the  young  man.  In  the  evening  he  read 
about  her  at  Van  der'Pyl's;  on  Sundays,  when 
the  tram  carried  him  to  drink  beer  at  Schevenin- 
gen,  he  read  about  her  in  the  Kurhaus.  And 
then  the  unexpected  happened.    In  this  way: 

Pitou  was  discharged. 

Few  things  could  have  surprised  him  more, 
and,  to  tell  the  truth,  few  things  could  have 
troubled  him  less.  "It  is  better  to  starve  in  Paris 
than  grow  fat  in  Holland,"  he  observed.  He 
jingled  his  capital  in  his  trouser-pocket,  in  fancy 
savoured  his  dinner  cooking  at  the  Cafe  du  Bel 
Avenir,  and  sped  from  the  piano  shop  as  if  it  had 
been  on  fire. 

The  clock  pointed  to  a  quarter  to  six  as  Nicolas 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  65 

Pitou,  composer,  emerged  from  the  gare  du 
Nord,  and  lightly  swinging  the  valise  that  con- 
tained his  wardrobe,  proceeded  to  the  rue  des 
Trois  Freres.  Never  had  it  looked  dirtier,  or 
sweeter.  He  threw  himself  on  Tricotrin's  neck; 
embraced  the  concierge^ — which  took  her  breath 
away,  since  she  was  ill-favoured  and  most  dis- 
agreeable ;  fared  sumptuously  for  one  franc  fifty 
at  the  Cafe  du  Bel  Avenir — where  he  narrated 
adventures  abroad  that  surpassed  de  Rouge- 
mont's ;  and  went  to  La  Coupole. 

And  there,  jostled  by  the  crowd,  the  poor 
fellow  looked  across  the  theatre  at  the  trimnph- 
ant  woman  he  had  invented — and  fell  in  love  with 
her. 

One  would  have  said  there  was  more  than  the 
width  of  a  theatre  between  them — one  would 
have  said  the  distance  was  interminable.  Who 
in  the  audience  could  suspect  that  Florozonde 
would  have  been  unknown  but  for  a  boy  in  the 
Promenoir? 

Yes,  he  fell  in  love — ^with  her  beauty,  her 
grace — perhaps  also  with  the  circumstances.  The 
theatre  rang  with  plaudits;  the  curtain  hid  her; 
and  he  went  out,  dizzy  with  romance.  He  could 
not  hope  to  speak  to  her  to-night,  but  he  was 
curious  to  see  her  when  she  left.  He  decided  that 
on  the  morrow  he  would  call  upon  de  Fronsac, 


56  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

whom  she  doubtless  knew  now,  and  ask  him  for 
an  introduction.  Promising  himself  this,  he 
reached  the  stage  door — ^where  de  Fronsac,  with 
trembling  limbs,  stood  giving  thanks  for  his  self- 
control. 

"My  friend!"  cried  Pitou  enthusiastically, 
"how  rejoiced  I  am  to  meet  you!"  and  nearly 
wrung  his  hand  off. 

"Aie!  Gently!"  expostulated  de  Fronsac, 
writhing.  "Aie,  aie!  I  did  not  know  you  loved 
me  so  much.  So  you  are  back  from  Sweden, 
hein?" 

"Yes.  I  have  not  been  there,  but  why  should 
we  argue  about  geography?  What  were  you  do- 
ing as  I  came  up — reciting  your  poems?  By 
the  way,  I  have  a  favour  to  ask;  I  want  you  to 
introduce  me  to  Florozonde." 

"Never!"  answered  the  poet  firmly;  "I  have 
too  much  affection  for  you — I  have  just  resolved 
not  to  see  her  again  myself.  Besides,  I  thought 
you  knew  her  in  the  circus?" 

"I  never  spoke  to  her  there — I  simply  admired 
her  from  the  plank.  Come,  take  me  inside,  and 
present  me!" 

"It  is  impossible,"  persisted  de  Fronsac;  "I 
tell  you  I  will  not  venture  near  her  any  more. 
Also,  she  is  coming  out — that  is  her  coupe  that 
you  see  waiting." 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  67 

She  came  out  as  he  spoke,  and,  affecting  not 
to  recognise  him,  moved  rapidly  towards  the 
carriage.  But  this  would  not  do  for  Pitou  at  all. 
"Mademoiselle!"  he  exclaimed,  sweeping  his  hat 
nearly  to  the  pavement. 

"Yes,  well?"  she  said  sharply,  turning, 

"I  have  just  begged  my  friend  de  Fronsac  to 
present  me  to  you,  and  he  feared  you  might  not 
pardon  his  presumption.  May  I  implore  you  to 
pardon  mine?" 

She  smiled.  There  was  the  instant  in  which 
neither  the  man  nor  the  woman  knows  who  will 
speak  next,  nor  what  is  to  be  said — the  instant 
on  which  destinies  hang.    Pitou  seized  it. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  returned  to  France  only  this 
evening.  All  the  journey  my  thought  was — ^to 
see  you  as  soon  as  I  arrived!" 

"Your  friend,"  she  said,  with  a  scornful  glance 
towards  de  Fronsac,  who  sauntered  gracefully 
away,  "would  warn  you  that  you  are  rash." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  his  warning." 

"Are  you  not  afraid  of  me?'' 

"Afraid  only  that  you  will  banish  me  too 
soon." 

"Mon  Dieu!  then  you  must  be  the  bravest  man 
in  Paris,"  she  said. 

"At  any  rate  I  am  the  luckiest  for  the  mo- 
ment," 


58  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Now  it  was  a  delightful  change  to  Florozonde 
to  meet  a  man  who  was  not  alarmed  by  her ;  and 
it  pleased  her  to  show  de  Fronsac  that  his  cow- 
ardice had  not  left  her  inconsolable.  She  laughed 
loud  enough  for  him  to  hear. 

"I  ought  not  to  be  affording  you  the  luck,"  she 
answered.  "I  have  friends  waiting  for  me  at  the 
Cafe  de  Paris." 

"I  expected  some  such  blow,"  said  Pitou. 
"And  how  can  I  suppose  you  will  disappoint 
your  friends  in  order  to  sup  with  me  at  the  Cafe 
du  Bel  Avenir  instead?" 

"The  Cafe  du ?"    She  was  puzzled. 

"Bel  Avenir." 

"I  do  not  know  it." 

"Nor  would  your  coachman.  We  should  walk 
there — and  our  supper  would  cost  three  francs, 
wine  included." 

"Is  it  an  invitation?" 

"It  is  a  prayer." 

"Who  are  you?" 

"My  name  is  Nicolas  Pitou." 

"Of  Paris?" 

"Of  bohemia." 

"What  do  you  do  in  it?" 

"Hunger,  and  make  music." 

"Unsuccessful?" 

"Nbt  to-night!" 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  59 

"Take  me  to  the  Bel  Avenir,"  she  said,  and 
sent  the  carriage  away. 

De  Fronsac,  looking  back  as  they  departed, 
was  distressed  to  see  the  young  man  risking  his 
life. 

At  the  Bel  Avenir  their  entrance  made  a  sen- 
sation. She  removed  her  cloak,  and  Pitou 
arranged  it  over  two  chairs.  Then  she  threw  her 
gloves  out  of  the  way,  in  the  bread-basket ;  and 
the  waiter  and  the  proprietress,  and  all  the 
family,  did  homage  to  her  toilette. 

''Who  would  have  supposed?"  she  smiled,  and 
her  smile  forgot  to  be  mysterious. 

"That  the  restaurant  would  be  so  proud?" 

"That  I  should  be  supping  with  you  in  it! 
Tell  me,  you  had  no  hope  of  this  on  your  jour- 
ney?   It  was  true  about  your  journey,  hein?" 

"Ah,  really!  No,  how  could  I  hope?  I  went 
round  after  your  dance  simply  to  see  you  closer; 
and  then  I  met  de  Fronsac,  and  then " 

"And  then  you  were  very  cheeky.  Answer! 
Why  do  I  interest  you?  Because  of  what  they 
say  of  me?" 

"Not  altogether." 

"What  else?" 

"Because  you  are  so  beautiful.  Answer!  Why 
did  you  come  to  supper  with  me?  To  annoy 
some  other  fellow?" 


60  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Mot  altogether." 

"What  else?" 

"Because  you  were  not  frightened  of  me.  Are 
you  sure  you  are  not  frightened?  Oh,  remember, 
remember  your  horrible  fate  if  I  should  like  you 
too  much!" 

"It  would  be  a  thumping  advertisement  for 
you,"  said  Pitou.  "Let  me  urge  you  to  try  to 
secure  it." 

"Reckless  boy!"  she  laughed.  "Pour  out  some 
more  wine.  Ah,  it  is  good,  this!  it  is  like  old 
times.  The  strings  o:^  onions  on  the  dear,  dirty 
walls,  and  the  serviettes  that  are  so  nice  and 
damp!  It  was  in  restaurants  like  this,  if  my 
salary  was  paid,  I  used  to  sup  on  fete  days." 

"And  if  it  was  not  paid?" 

"I  supped  in  imagination.  My  dear,  I  have 
had  a  cigarette  for  a  supper,  and  the  grass  for  a 
bed.  I  have  tramped  by  the  caravan  while  the 
stars  faded,  and  breakfasted  on  the  drum  in  the 
tent.  And  you — on  a  bench  in  the  Champs 
Elysees,  hein?" 

"It  has  occurred." 

"And  you  watched  the  sun  rise,  and  made 
music,  and  wished  you  could  rise,  too?  I  must 
hear  your  music  some  day.  You  shall  write  me 
a  dance.    Is  it  agreed?" 


THE  FATAL  FLOROZONDE  61 

"The  contract  is  already  stamped,"  said  Pitou. 

"I  am  glad  I  met  you — it  is  the  best  supper  I 
have  had  in  Paris.  Why  are  you  calculating  the 
expenses  on  the  back  of  the  bill  of  fare?" 

"I  am  not.  I  am  composing  your  dance,"  said 
Pitou.  ''Don't  speak  for  a  minute,  it  will  be  sub- 
lime! Also  it  will  be  a  souvenir  when  you  have 
gone." 

But  she  did  not  go  for  a  long  while.  It  was 
late  when  they  left  the  Cafe  du  Bel  Avenir,  still 
talking — and  there  was  always  more  to  say.  By 
this  time  Pitou  did  not  merely  love  her  beauty — • 
he  adored  the  woman.  As  for  Florozonde,  she 
no  longer  merely  loved  his  courage — she  ap- 
proved the  man. 

Listen:  he  was  young,  fervid,  and  an  artist; 
his  proposal  was  made  before  they  reached  her 
doorstep,  and  she  consented! 

Their  attachment  was  the  talk  of  the  town, 
and  everybody  waited  to  hear  that  Pitou  had 
killed  himself.  His  name  was  widely  known  at 
last.  But  weeks  and  months  went  by;  Floro- 
zonde's  protracted  season  came  to  an  end;  and 
still  he  looked  radiantly  well.  Pitou  was  the  most 
unpopular  man  in  Paris. 

In  the  rue  Dauphine,  one  day,  he  met  de 
Fronsac. 


62  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"So  you  are  still  alive!"  snarled  the  poet. 

"Never  better,"  declared  Pitou.  "It  turns 
out,"  he  added  confidentially,  "there  was  nothing 
in  that  story — it  was  all  fudge." 

"Evidently!  I  must  congratulate  you,"  said 
de  Fronsac,  looking  bomb-shells. 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS 

In  Bordeaux,  on  the  21st  of  December, 
monsieur  Petitpas,  a  clerk  with  bohemian  yearn- 
ings, packed  his  portmanteau  for  a  week's  holi- 
day. In  Paris,  on  the  same  date,  monsieur 
Tricotrin,  poet  and  pauper,  was  commissioned 
by  the  Editor  of  JLe  Demi-Mot  to  convert  a 
rough  translation  into  literary  French.  These 
two  disparate  incidents  were  destined  by  Fate — 
always  mysterious  in  her  workings — to  be  united 
in  a  narrative  for  the  present  volume. 

Three  evenings  later  the  poet's  concierge 
climbed  the  stairs  and  rapped  peremptorily  at  the 
door. 

"Well?"  cried  Tricotrin,  raising  bloodshot  eyes 
from  the  manuscript;  "who  disturbs  me  now? 
Come  in!" 

"I  have  come  in,"  panted  madame  Dubois, 
who  had  not  waited  for  his  invitation,  "and  I 
am  here  to  tell  you,  monsieur,  that  you  cannot 
be  allowed  to  groan  in  this  agonised  fashion. 
Your  lamentations  can  be  heard  even  in  the  base- 
ment." 

63 


64  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Is  it  in  my  agreement,  madame,  that  I  shall 
not  groan  if  I  am  so  disposed?"  inquired  the 
poet  haughtily. 

"There  are  things  tacitly  understood.  It  is 
enough  that  you  are  in  arrears  with  your  rent, 
without  your  doing  your  best  to  drive  away  the 
other  tenants.  For  two  days  they  have  all  com- 
plained that  it  would  be  less  disturbing  to  reside 
in  a  hospital." 

"Well,  they  have  my  permission  to  remove 
there,"  said  Tricotrin.  "Now  that  the  matter  is 
settled,  let  me  get  on  with  my  work!"  And  with 
the  groan  of  a  soul  in  Hades,  he  perused  another 
line. 

"There  you  go  again!"  expostulated  the 
woman  angrily.  "It  is  not  to  be  endured,  mon- 
sieur. What  is  the  matter  with  you,  for  good- 
ness' sake?" 

"With  me,  madame,  there  is  nothing  the 
matter;  the  fault  lies  with  an  infernal  Spanish 
novel.  A  misguided  editor  has  commissioned 
me  to  rewrite  it  from  a  translation  made  by  a 
foreigner.  How  can  I  avoid  groans  when  I  read 
his  rot?  Miranda  exclaims,  'May  heaven  con- 
found you,  bandit!'  And  the  fiance  of  the  in- 
genue addresses  her  as  'Angel  of  this  house !'  " 

"Well,  at  least  groan  quietly,"  begged  the 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       65 

concierge;  "do  not  bellow  your  sufferings  to  the 
cellar." 

''To  oblige  you  I  will  be  as  Spartan  as  I  can/' 
5,greed  Tricotrin.  "Now  I  have  lost  my  place 
in  the  masterpiece.  Ah,  here  we  are!  'I  feel 
she  brings  bad  tidings — she  wears  a  disastrous 
mien.'  It  is  sprightly  dialogue !  If  the  hundred 
and  fifty  francs  were  not  essential  to  keep  a  roof 
over  my  head,  I  would  send  the  Editor  a  chal- 
lenge for  offering  me  the  job." 

Perspiration  bespangled  the  young  man's  brow 
as  he  continued  his  task.  When  another  hour 
had  worn  by  he  thirsted  to  do  the  foreign  trans- 
lator a  bodily  injury,  and  so  intense  was  his 
exasperation  that,  by  way  of  interlude,  he  placed 
the  manuscript  on  the  floor  and  jumped  on  itc 
But  the  climax  was  reached  in  Chapter  XXVII : 
under  the  provocation  of  the  love  scene  in 
Chapter  XXVII  frenzy  mastered  him,  and  with 
a  yell  of  torture  he  hurled  the  whole  novel 
through  the  window,  and  burst  into  hysterical 
tears. 

The  novel,  which  was  of  considerable  bulk, 
descended  on  the  landlord,  who  was  just  ap- 
proaching the  house  to  collect  his  dues. 

"What  does  it  mean,"  gasped  monsieur  Gouge, 
when  he  had  recovered  his  equilibrium,  and  his 


66  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

hat;  "what  does  it  mean  that  I  cannot  approach 
my  own  property  without  being  assaulted  with  a 
ton  of  paper?  Who  has  dared  to  throw  such  a 
thing  from  a  window?" 

"Monsieur/'  stammered  the  concierge,  "I  do 
not  doubt  that  it  was  the  top*floor  poet;  he  has 
been  behaving  like  a  lunatic  for  days." 

"Aha,  the  top-floor  poet?"  snorted  monsieur 
Gouge.  "I  shall  soon  dispose  of  himr  And 
Tricotrin's  tears  were  scarcely  dried  when  banff 
came  another  knock  at  his  door. 

"So,  monsieur,"  exclaimed  the  landlord,  with 
fine  satire,  "your  poems  are  of  small  account, 
it  appears,  since  you  use  them  as  missiles?  The 
value  you  put  upon  your  scribbling  does  not  en- 
courage me  to  wait  for  my  rent!" 

"Mine?"  faltered  Tricotrin,  casting  an  indig- 
nant glance  at  the  muddy  manuscript  restored  to 
him;  "you  accuse  me  of  having  perpetrated  that 
atrocity?  Oh,  this  is  too  much!  I  have  a  repu- 
tation to  preserve,  monsieur,  and  I  swear  by  all 
the  Immortals  that  it  was  no  work  of  mine." 

"Did  you  not  throw  it?" 

"Throw  it?  Yes,  assuredly  I  threw  it.  But 
I  did  not  write  it." 

"Morbleu!  what  do  I  care  who  wrote  it?" 
roared   monsieur   Gouge,   purple   with   spleen. 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       67 

"Does  its  authorship  improve  the  condition  of 
my  hat?  My  gi^ievance  is  its  arrival  on  my  head, 
not  its  literary  quality.  Let  me  tell  you  that 
you  expose  yourself  to  actions  at  law,  pitching 
weights  like  this  from  a  respectable  house  into 
a  public  street." 

"I  should  plead  insanity,"  said  Tricotrin; 
"twenty-seven  chapters  of  that  novel,  translated 
into  a  Spaniard's  French,  would  suffice  to  people 
an  asylum.  Nevertheless,  if  it  arrived  on  your 
hat,  I  owe  you  an  apology." 

"You  also  owe  me  two  hundred  francs!" 
shouted  the  other,  "and  I  have  shown  you  more 
patience  than  you  deserve.  Well,  my  folly  is 
finished!  You  settle  up,  or  you  get  out,  right 
off!" 

"Have  you  reflected  that  it  is  Christmas  Eve 
—do  we  live  in  a  melodrama,  that  I  should  wan- 
der homeless  on  Christmas  Eve?  Seriously,  you 
cannot  expect  a  man  of  taste  to  lend  himself  to 
so  hackneyed  a  situation?  Besides,  I  share  this 
apartment  with  the  composer  monsieur  Nicolas 
Pitou.  Consider  how  poignant  he  would  find  the 
room's  associations  if  he  returned  to  dwell  here 
alone!" 

"Monsieur  Pitou  will  not  be  admitted  when  he 
returns — there  is  not  a  pin  to  choose  between  the 


68  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

pair  of  you.  You  hand  me  the  two  hundred 
francs,  or  you  go  this  minute — and  I  shall  detain 
your  wardrobe  till  you  pay.    Where  is  it?" 

"It  is  divided  between  my  person  and  a  shelf 
at  the  pawnbroker's/'  explained  the  poet;  "but 
I  have  a  soiled  collar  in  the  left-hand  corner 
drawer.  However,  I  can  offer  you  more  valuable 
security  for  this  trifling  debt  than  you  would 
dare  to  ask;  the  bureau  is  full  of  pearls — ^met- 
rical, but  beyond  price.  I  beg  your  tenderest 
care  of  them,  especially  my  tragedy  in  seven  acts. 
Do  not  play  jinks  with  the  contents  of  that 
bureau,  or  Posterity  will  gibbet  you  and  the  name 
of  'Gouge'  will  one  day  be  execrated  throughout 
France.    Garbage,  farewell!" 

"Here,  take  your  shaving  paper  with  you!" 
cried  monsieur  Gouge,  flinging  the  Spanish  novel 
down  the  stairs.  And  the  next  moment  the  man 
of  letters  stood  dejected  on  the  pavement,  with 
the  fatal  manuscript  under  his  arm. 

"Ah,  Miranda,  Miranda,  thou  little  knowest 
what  mischief  thou  hast  done!"  he  murmured, 
unconsciously  plagiarising.  "She  brought  bad 
tidings  indeed,  with  her  disastrous  mien,"  he 
added.    "What  is  to  become  of  me  now?" 

The  moon,  to  which  he  had  naturally  addressed 
this  query,  made  no  answer;  and,  fingering  the 
sou  in  his  trouser-pocket,  he  trudged  in  the  direc- 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       69 

tion  of  the  rue  Ravignan.  "The  situation  would 
look  well  in  print,"  he  reflected,  ''but  the  load 
under  my  arm  should,  dramatically,  be  a  bundle 
of  my  own  poems.  Doubtless  the  matter  will  be 
put  right  by  my  biographer.  I  wonder  if  I  can 
get  half  a  bed  from  Goujaud?" 

Encouraged  by  the  thought  of  the  painter's 
hospitality,  he  proceeded  to  the  studio;  but  he 
was  informed  in  sour  tones  that  monsieur  Gou- 
jaud  would  not  sleep  there  that  night. 

"So  much  the  better,"  he  remarked,  "for  I 
can  have  all  his  bed,  instead  of  half  of  it!  Be- 
lieve me,  I  shall  put  you  to  no  trouble,  madame." 

"I  believe  it  fully,"  answered  the  woman,  "for 
you  will  not  come  inside — not  monsieur  Goujaud, 
nor  you,  nor  any  other  of  his  vagabond  friends. 
So,  there!" 

"Ah,  is  that  how  the  wind  blows — ^the  fellow 
has  not  paid  his  rent?"  said  Tricotrin.  "How 
disgraceful  of  him,  to  be  sure!  Fortunately 
Sanquereau  lives  in  the  next  house." 

He  pulled  the  bell  there  forthwith,  and  the  peal 
had  scarcely  sounded  when  Sanquereau  rushed 
to  the  door,  crying,  "Welcome,  my  Beautiful!" 

"Mon  Dieu,  what  worthless  acquaintances  I 
possess !"  moaned  the  unhappy  poet.  "Since  you 
are  expecting  your  Beautiful  I  need  not  go  into 
details." 


70  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"What  on  earth  did  you  want?"  muttered 
Sanquereau,  crestfallen. 

"I  came  to  tell  you  the  latest  Stop  Press  news 
— Goujaud's  landlord  has  turned  him  out  and  I 
have  no  bed  to  lie  on.    Au  revoir!" 

After  another  apostrophe  to  the  heavens, 
"That  inane  moon,  which  makes  no  response,  is 
beginning  to  get  on  my  nerves,"  he  soliloquised. 
"Let  me  see  now!  There  is  certainly  master 
Criquebceuf,  but  it  is  a  long  journey  to  the 
quartier  Latin,  and  when  I  get  there  his  social 
engagements  may  annoy  me  as  keenly  as  San- 
quereau's.  It  appears  to  me  I  am  likely  to  try 
the  open-air  cure  to-night.  In  the  meanwhile  I 
may  as  well  find  Miranda  a  seat  and  think  things 
over." 

Accordingly  he  bent  his  steps  to  the  place  Dan- 
court,  and  having  deposited  the  incubus  beside 
him,  stretched  his  limbs  on  a  bench  beneath  a 
tree.  His  attitude,  and  his  luxuriant  locks,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  melancholy  aspect,  rendered 
him  a  noticeable  figure  in  the  little  square,  and 
monsieur  Petitpas,  from  Bordeaux,  under  the 
awning  of  the  cafe  opposite,  stood  regarding  him 
with  enthusiasm. 

"Upon  my  word  of  honour,"  mused  Petitpas, 
rubbing  his  hands,  "I  believe  I  see  a  Genius  in 
the  dumps!    At  last  I  behold  the  Paris  of  my 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       71 

dreams.  If  I  have  read  my  Murger  to  any 
purpose,  I  am  on  the  verge  of  an  epoch.  What 
a  delightful  adventure!" 

Taking  out  his  Marylands,  Petitpas  sauntered 
towards  the  bench  with  a  great  show  of  careless- 
ness, and  made  a  pretence  of  feeling  in  his 
pockets  for  a  match.  ''Tschut!"  he  exclaimed; 
then,  affecting  to  observe  Tricotrin  for  the  first 
time,  "May  I  beg  you  to  oblige  me  with  a  light, 
monsieur?"  he  asked  deferentially  A  puff  of 
wind  provided  an  excuse  for  sitting  down  to 
guard  the  flame ;  and  the  next  moment  the  Genius 
had  accepted  a  cigarette,  and  acknowledged  that 
the  weather  was  mild  for  the  time  of  year. 

Excitement  thrilled  Petitpas.  How  often, 
after  business  hours,  he  had  perused  his  well- 
thumbed  copy  of  La  Vie  de  Boheme  and  in  fancy 
consorted  with  the  gay  descendants  of  Rodolphe 
and  Marcel;  how  often  he  had  regretted  secretly 
that  he,  himself,  did  not  woo  a  Muse  and  jest  at 
want  in  a  garret,  instead  of  totting  up  figures, 
and  eating  three  meals  a  day  in  comfort!  And 
now  positively  one  of  the  fascinating  beings  of 
his  imagination  lolled  by  his  side!  The  little 
clerk  on  a  holiday  longed  to  play  the  generous 
comrade.  In  his  purse  he  had  a  couj)le  of  louis, 
designed  for  sight-seeing,  and,  with  a  rush  of 
emotion,  he  pictured  himself  squandering  five 


72  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

or  six  francs  in  half  an  hour  and  startling  the 
artist  by  his  prodigality. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,  I  have  the  honour  to 
address  an  author,  monsieur?"  he  ventured. 

"Your  instincts  have  not  misled  you,"  replied 
the  poet;  "I  am  Tricotrin,  monsieur — Gustave 
Tricotrin.  The  name,  however,  is  to  be  found, 
as  yet,  on  no  statues." 

"My  own  name,"  said  the  clerk,  "is  Adolphe 
Petitpas.  I  am  a  stranger  in  Paris,  and  I  count 
myself  fortunate  indeed  to  have  made  monsieur 
Tricotrin's  acquaintance  so  soon." 

"He  expresses  himself  with  some  discretion, 
this  person,"  reflected  Tricotrin.  "And  his 
cigarette  was  certainly  providential!" 

"To  meet  an  author  has  always  been  an  ambi- 
tion of  mine,"  Petitpas  continued;  "I  dare  to 
say  that  I  have  the  artistic  temperament,  though 
circumstances  have  condemned  me  to  commercial 
pursuits.  You  have  no  idea  how  enviable  the 
literary  life  appears  to  me,  monsieur!" 

"Its  privileges  are  perhaps  more  monotonous 
than  you  suppose,"  drawled  the  homeless  poet. 
"Also,  I  had  to  work  for  many  years  before  I 
attained  my  present  position." 

"This  noble  book,  for  instance,"  began  the 
clerk,  laying  a  reverent  hand  on  the  abominable 
manuscript. 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       73 

"Hein?"  exclaimed  its  victim,  starting. 

*'To  have  written  this  noble  book  must  be  a 
joy  compared  with  which  my  own  prosperity  is 
valueless." 

"The  damned  thing  is  no  work  of  mine,"  cried 
Tricotrin;  "and  if  we  are  to  avoid  a  quarrel,  I 
will  ask  you  not  to  accuse  me  of  it!  A  joy,  in- 
deed? In  that  block  of  drivel  you  view  the  cause 
of  my  deepest  misfortunes." 

"A  thousand  apologies!"  stammered  his  com- 
panion; "my  inference  was  hasty.  But  what  you 
say  interests  me  beyond  words.  This  manuscript, 
of  seeming  innocence,  is  the  cause  of  misfortunes  ? 
May  I  crave  an  enormous  favour ;  may  I  beg  you 
to  regard  me  as  a  friend  and  give  me  your  con- 
fidence?" 

"I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  refuse  it," 
answered  Tricotrin,  on  whom  the  boast  of  "pros- 
perity" had  made  a  deep  impression.  "You  must 
know,  then,  that  this  ineptitude,  inflicted  on  me 
by  an  eccentric  editor  for  translation,  drove  me 
to  madness,  and  not  an  hour  ago  I  cast  it  from 
my  window  in  disgust.  It  is  a  novel  entirely 
devoid  of  taste  and  tact,  and  it  had  the  clumsi- 
ness to  alight  on  my  landlord's  head.  Being  a 
man  of  small  nature,  he  retaliated  by  demanding 
his  rent." 

"Which  it  was  not  convenient  to  pay?"  inter- 


74  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

rupted  Petitpas,  all  the  pages  of  La  Vie  de 
Boheme  playing  leapfrog  through  his  brain. 

"I  regret  to  bore  you  by  so  trite  a  situation. 
'Which  it  was  not  convenient  to  pay' !  Indeed, 
I  was  not  responsible  for  all  of  it,  for  I  occupied 
the  room  with  a  composer  named  Pitou.  Well, 
you  can  construct  the  next  scene  without  a  collab- 
orator; the  landlord  has  a  speech,  and  the  trag- 
edy is  entitled  'Tricotrin  in  Quest  of  a  Home.'  " 

"What  of  the  composer?"  inquired  the  de- 
lighted clerk;  "what  has  become  of  monsieur 
Pitou?" 

"Monsieur  Pitou  was  not  on  in  that  Act.  The 
part  of  Pitou  will  attain  prominence  when  he  re- 
turns and  finds  himself  locked  out." 

"But,  my  dear  monsieur  Tricotrin,  in  such  an 
extremity  you  should  have  sought  the  services  of 
a  friend." 

"I  had  that  inspiration  myself;  I  sought  a 
painter  called  Goujaud.  And  observe  how  care- 
less is  Reality  in  the  matter  of  coincidences!  I 
learnt  from  his  concierge  that  precisely  the  same 
thing  had  befallen  monsieur  Goujaud.  He,  too, 
is  Christmassing  alfresco." 

"Mon  Dieu,"  faltered  the  clerk,  "how  it  re- 
joices me  that  I  have  met  you!  All  my  life  I 
have  looked  forward  to  encountering  a  genius  in 
such  a  fix." 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       75 

"Alas !"  sighed  Tricotrin,  with  a  pensive  smile, 
"to  the  genius  the  fix  is  less  spicy.  Without  a 
supper " 

"Without  a  supper!"  crowed  Petitpas, 

"Without  a  bed " 

"Without  a  bed!"  babbled  Petitpas,  enrav- 
ished. 

"With  nothing  but  a  pen  and  the  sacred  fire, 
one  may  be  forgiven  sadness." 

"Not  so,  not  so,"  shouted  Petitpas,  smacking 
him  on  the  back.  "You  are  omitting  me  from 
your  list  of  assets!  Listen,  I  am  staying  at  an 
hotel.  You  cannot  decline  to  accord  me  the 
honour  of  welcoming  you  there  as  my  guest  for 
the  night.  Hang  the  expense !  I  am  no  longer 
in  business,  I  am  a  bohemian,  like  yourself;  some 
supper,  a  bed,  and  a  little  breakfast  will  not  ruin 
me.    What  do  you  say,  monsieur?" 

"I  say,  drop  the  'monsieur,'  old  chap,"  re- 
sponded Tricotrin.  "Your  suggestions  for  the 
tragedy  are  cordially  accepted.  I  have  never 
known  a  collaborator  to  improve  a  plot  so  much. 
And  understand  this :  I  feel  more  earnestly  than 
I  speak;  henceforth  we  are  pals,  you  and  I." 

"Brothers!"  cried  Petitpas,  in  ecstasy.  "You 
shall  hear  all  about  a  novel  that  I  have  projected 
for  years.  I  should  like  to  have  your  opinion 
of  it." 


76  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"I  shall  be  enchanted,"  said  Tricotrin,  his  jaw 
dropping. 

"You  must  introduce  me  to  your  circle — ^the 
painters,  and  the  models,  and  the  actresses. 
Your  friends  shall  be  my  friends  in  future." 

"Don't  doubt  it!  When  I  tell  them  what  a 
brick  you  are,  they  will  be  proud  to  know  you." 

"No  ceremony,  mind!" 

"Not  a  bit.  You  shall  be  another  chum.  Al- 
ready I  feel  as  if  we  had  been  confidants  in  our 
cradles." 

"It  is  the  same  with  me.  How  true  it  is  that 
kindred  spirits  recognise  each  other  in  an  instant. 
What  is  environment?  Bah!  A  man  may  be  a 
bohemian  and  an  artist  although  his  occupations 
are  commercial?" 

"Perfectly!  I  nearly  pined  amid  commercial 
occupations  myself." 

"What  an  extraordinary  coincidence!  Ah, 
that  is  the  last  bond  between  us !  You  can  realise 
my  most  complex  moods,  you  can  penetrate  to 
the  most  distant  suburbs  of  my  soul!  Gustave, 
if  I  had  been  free  to  choose  my  career,  I  should 
have  become  a  famous  man." 

"My  poor  Adolphe !  Still,  prosperity  is  not  an 
unmixed  evil.  You  must  seek  compensation  in 
your  wealth,"  murmured  the  poet,  who  began  to 
think  that  one  might  pay  too  high  a  price  for  a  bed. 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       77 

^'Oh — er — ^to  be  sur^!"  said  the  little  clerk, 
reminded  that  he  was  pledged  to  a  larger  outlay 
than  he  had  originally  proposed.  "That  is  to 
say,  I  am  not  precisely  'wealthy.'  "  He  saw  his 
pocket-money  during  the  trip  much  curtailed, 
and  rather  wished  that  his  impulse  had  been  less 
expansive. 

"A  snug  income  is  no  stigma,  whether  one  de- 
rives it  from  Parnassus  or  the  Bourse,"  continued 
Tricotrin.  *'Hold!  Who  is  that  I  see,  slouching 
over  there?  As  I  live,  it's  Pitou,  the  composer, 
whose  dilemma  I  told  you  of!" 

"Another?"  quavered  the  clerk,  dismayed. 

"He,  Nicolas!  Turn  your  symphonic  gaze  this 
way!    'TisI,  Gustave!" 

"Ah,  mon  vieux!"  exclaimed  the  young 
musician  joyfully;  "I  was  wondering  what  your 
fate  might  be.  I  have  only  just  come  from  the 
house.  Madame  Dubois  refused  me  admission; 
she  informed  me  that  you  had  been  firing  Spanish 
novels  at  Gouge's  head.  Why  Spanish?  Is  the 
Spanish  variety  deadlier?  So  the  villain  has  had 
the  effrontery  to  turn  us  out?" 

"Let  me  make  you  affinities  known  to  each 
other,"  said  Tricotrin.  ''My  brother  Nicolas — 
my  brother  Adolphe.  Brother  Adolphe  has  re- 
ceived a  scenario  of  the  tragedy  already,  and  he 
has  a  knack  of  inventing  brilliant  'curtains/  '* 


78  A  CHAlJl  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Behind  Pitou's  back  he  winked  at  Petitpas,  as 
if  to  say,  "He  little  suspects  what  a  surprise  you 
have  in  store  for  him!" 

''Oh — er— I  am  grieved  to  hear  of  your 
trouble,  monsieur  Pitou,"  said  Petitpas  feebly. 

"What  ?  'Grieved'  ?  Come,  that  isn't  all  about 
it!'*  cried  Tricotrin,  who  attributed  his  restraint 
to  nothing  but  diffidence.  In  an  undertone  he 
added,  ''Don't  be  nervous,  dear  boy.  Your  in- 
vitation won't  offend  him  in  the  least!" 

Petitpas  breathed  heavily.  He  aspired  to 
prove  himself  a  true  bohemian,  but  his  heart 
quailed  at  the  thought  of  such  expense.  Two 
suppers,  two  beds,  and  two  little  breakfasts  as  a 
supplement  to  his  bill  would  be  no  joke.  It  was 
with  a  very  poor  grace  that  he  stammered  at  last, 
"I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  suggest  a  way  out, 
monsieur  Pitou?  A  room  at  my  hotel  seems  to 
dispose  of  the  difficulty." 

"Hein?"  exclaimed  Pitou.  ^'Is  that  room  a 
mirage,  or  are  you  serious?" 

"'Serious'?"  echoed  Tricotrin.  "He  is  as 
serious  as  an  English  adaptation  of  a  French 
farce."  He  went  on,  under  his  breath,  "You 
mustn't  judge  him  by  his  manner,  I  can  see  that 
he  has  turned  a  little  shy.  Believe  me,  he  is  the 
King  of  Trumps." 

"Well,  upon  my  word  I  shall  be  delighted, 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       79 

monsieur,"  responded  Pitou.  *'It  wais  evidently 
the  good  kind  fairies  that  led  me  to  the  place 
Dancourt.  I  would  ask  you  to  step  over  the  way 
and  have  a  bock,  but  my  finances  forbid." 

"Your  finances  need  cause  no  drought — 
Adolphe  will  be  paymaster!"  declared  Tricotrin 
gaily,  shouldering  his  manuscript.  *'Come,  let  us 
adjourn  and  give  the  Reveillon  its  due!" 

Petitpas  suppressed  a  moan.  "By  all  means," 
he  assented;  "I  was  about  to  propose  it  myself. 
I  am  a  real  bohemian,  you  know,  and  think  noth- 
ing of  ordering  several  bocks  at  once." 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  all  you  say?"  whispered 
Pitou  to  Tricotrin,  with  misgiving. 

"A  shade  embarrassed,  that  is  all,"  pronounced 
the  poet.  And  then,  as  the  trio  moved  arm-in- 
arm toward  the  cafe,  a  second  solitary  figure 
emerged  from  the  obscurity  of  the  square. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  ejaculated  Tricotrin;  "am  I 

mistaken,     or Look,     look,     Adolphe!     I 

would  bet  ten  to  one  in  sonnets  that  it  is  Goujaud, 
the  painter,  whose  plight  I  mentioned  to  you!" 

"Yet  another?"  gasped  Petitpas,  panic- 
stricken. 

"Sst!  He,  Goujaud!  Come  here,  you  vag- 
rant, and  be  entertaining!" 

"Well  met,  you  fellows!"  sighed  Goujaud. 
"Where  are  you  off  to?" 


80  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"We  are  going  to  give  Miranda  a  drink/'  said 
the  poet;  "she  is  drier  than  ever.  Let  there  be 
no  strangers — ^my  brother  Adolphe,  my  brother 
Theodose!  What  is  your  secret  woe,  Theo? 
Your  face  is  as  long  as  this  Spaniard's  novel. 
Adolphe,  have  you  a  recipe  in  your  pocket  for  the 
hump?" 

"Perhaps  monsieur  Goujaud  will  join  us  in  a 
glass  of  beer?"  said  Petitpas  very  coldly. 

"There  are  more  unlikely  things  than  that!" 
affirmed  the  painter;  and  when  the  cafe  was  en- 
tered, he  swallowed  his  bock  like  one  who  has  a 
void  to  fill.  "The  fact  is,"  he  confided  to  the 
group,  "I  was  about  to  celebrate  the  Reveillon 
on  a  bench.  That  insolent  landlord  of  mine  has 
kicked  me  out." 

"And  you  will  not  get  inside,"  said  Tricotrin, 
"  'not  you,  nor  I,  nor  any  other  of  your  vagabond 
friends.  So  there!'  I  had  the  privilege  of  con- 
versing with  your  concierge  earlier  in  the  eve- 
ning." 

"Ah,  then,  you  know  all  about  it.  Well,  now 
that  I  have  run  across  you,  you  can  give  me  a 
shakedown  in  your  attic.     Good  business!" 

"I  discern  only  one  drawback  to  the  scheme," 
said  Pitou;  "we  haven't  any  attic.  It  must  be 
something  in  the  air — all  the  landlords  seem  to 
have  the  same  complaint." 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  OF  PETITPAS       81 

"But  if  you  decide  in  the  bench's  favour,  after 
all,  you  may  pillow  your  curls  on  Miranda,"  put 
in  Tricotrin.  ''She  would  be  exhilarating  com- 
pany for  him,  Adolphe,  hein?  What  do  you 
think?"  He  murmured  aside,  ''Give  him  a  dig 
in  the  ribs  and  say,  'You  silly  ass,  I  can  fix  you 
up  all  right!'  That's  the  way  we  issue  invita- 
tions in  Montmartre." 

The  clerk's  countenance  was  livid;  his  tongue 
stuck  to  his  front  teeth.  At  last,  wrenching  the 
words  out,  he  groaned,  "If  monsieur  Goujaud 
will  accept  my  hospitahty,  I  shall  be  charmed!" 
He  was  not  without  a  hope  that  his  frigid  bearing 
would  beget  a  refusal. 

"Ah,  my  dear  old  chap!"  shouted  Goujaud 
without  an  instant's  hesitation,  "consider  it 
done!"  And  now  there  were  to  be  three  suppers, 
three  beds,  and  three  little  breakfasts,  distorting 
the  account! 

Petitpas  sipped  his  bock  faintly,  affecting  not 
to  notice  that  his  guests'  glasses  had  been 
emptied.  With  all  his  soul  he  repented  the  im- 
pulse that  had  led  to  his  predicament.  Amid  the 
throes  of  his  mental  arithmetic  he  recognised  that 
he  had  been  deceived  in  himself,  that  he  had  no 
abiding  passion  for  bohemia.  How  much  more 
pleasing  than  to  board  and  lodge  this  disrepu- 
table collection  would  have  been  the  daily  round 


82  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

of  amusements  that  he  had  plamied !  Even  now 
— he  caught  his  breath — even  now  it  was  not  too 
late;  he  might  pay  for  the  drinks  and  escape! 
Why  shouldn't  he  run  away? 

"Gentlemen,"  cried  Petitpas,  "I  shall  go  and 
fetch  a  cab  for  us  all.  Make  yourselves  com- 
fortable till  I  come  back!"  / 

When  the  cafe  closed,  messieurs  Tricotrin, 
Goujaud,  and  Pitou  crept  forlornly  across  the 
square  and  disposed  themselves  for  slumber  on 
the  bench. 

"Well,  there  is  this  to  be  said,"  yawned  the 
poet,  "if  the  little  bounder  had  kept  his  word, 
it  would  have  been  an  extraordinary  conclusion 
to  our  adventures — as  persons  of  literary  discre- 
tion, we  can  hardly  regret  that  a  story  did  not 
end  so  improbably.  .  .  .  My  children,  Miranda, 
good-night — and  a  Merry  Christmas!" 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART 

On  the  last  day  of  the  year,  towards  the  din- 
ner-hour, a  young  and  attractive  woman,  whose 
costume  proclaimed  her  a  widow,  entered  the 
Cafe  of  the  Broken  Heart.  That  modest  res- 
taurant is  situated  near  the  Cemetery  of  Mont- 
martre.  The  lady,  quoting  from  an  announce- 
ment over  the  window,  requested  the  proprietor 
to  conduct  her  to  the  "Apartment  reserved  for 
Those  Desirous  of  Weeping  Alone." 

The' proprietor's  shoulders  became  apologetic. 
"A  thousand  regrets,  madame,"  he  murmured; 
"the  Weeping  Alone  apartment  is  at  present 
occupied." 

This  visibly  annoyed  the  customer. 

"It  is  the  second  anniversary  of  my  bereave- 
ment," she  complained,  "and  already  I  have  wept 
here  twice.  The  woe  of  an  habituee  should  jSnd 
a  welcome!" 

Her  reproof,  still  more  her  air  of  being  well- 
to-do,  had  an  effect  on  Brochat.  He  looked  at 
his  wife,  and  his  wife  said  hesitatingly: 

"Perhaps  the  young  man  would  consent  to 

83 


84  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

oblige  madame  if  you  asked  him  nicely.  After 
all,  he  engaged  the  room  for  seven  o'clock,  and 
it  is  not  yet  half-past  six." 

''That  is  true,"  said  Brochat.  "Alors,  I  shall 
see  what  can  be  arranged!  I  beg  that  madame 
will  put  herself  to  the  trouble  of  sitting  down 
while  I  make  the  biggest  endeavours." 

But  he  returned  after  a  few  minutes  to  declare 
that  the  young  man's  sorrow  was  so  profound 
that  no  reply  could  be  extracted  from  him. 

The  lady  showed  signs  of  temper.  ''Has  this 
person  the  monopoly  of  sorrowing  on  your  prem- 
ises?" she  demanded.  "Whom  does  he  lament? 
Surely  the  loss  of  a  husband  should  give  me  prior 
claim?" 

"I  cannot  rightly  say  whom  the  gentleman 
laments,"  stammered  Brochat;  "the  circum- 
stances are,  in  fact,  somewhat  unusual.  I  would 
mention,  however,  that  the  apartment  is  a 
spacious  one,  as  madame  doubtless  recalls,  and 
no  further  mourners  are  expected  for  half  an 
hour.  If  in  the  meantime  madame  would  be  so 
amiable  as  to  weep  in  the  young  man's  presence, 
I  can  assure  her  that  she  would  fmd  him  too 
stricken  to  stare." 

The  widow  considered.  "Well,"  she  said,  after 
the  pause,  "if  you  can  guarantee  his  abstraction, 
so  be  it!    It  is  a  matter  of  conscience  with  me 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART      85 

to  behave  in  precisely  the  same  way  each  year, 
and,  rather  than  miss  my  meditations  there  alto- 
gether, I  am  willing  to  make  the  best  of  him." 

Brochat,  having  taken  her  order  for  refresh- 
ments— for  which  he  always  charged  slightly 
higher  prices  on  the  first  floor — preceded  her  up 
the  stairs.  The  single  gas-flame  that  had  been 
kindled  in  the  room  was  very  low,  and  the  lady 
received  but  a  momentary  impression  of  a  man's 
figure  bowed  over  a  white  table.  She  chose  a 
chair  at  once  with  her  back  towards  him,  and 
resting  her  brow  on  her  forefinger,  disposed  her- 
self for  desolation. 

It  may  have  been  that  the  stranger's  proximity 
told  on  her  nerves,  or  it  may  have  been  that  Time 
had  done  something  to  heal  the  wound.  What- 
ever the  cause,  the  frame  of  mind  that  she  invited 
was  slow  in  arriving,  and  when  the  bouillon  and 
biscottes  appeared  she  was  not  averse  from 
trifling  with  them.  Meanwhile,  for  any  sound 
that  he  had  made,  the  young  man  might  have 
been  as  defunct  as  Henri  IV ;  but  as  she  took  her 
second  sip,  a  groan  of  such  violence  escaped  him 
that  she  nearly  upset  her  cup. 

His  abandonment  of  despair  seemed  to  reflect 
upon  her  own  insensibility;  and,  partly  to  raise 
herself  in  his  esteem,  the  lady  a  moment  later 
uttered  a  long-drawn,  wistful  sigh.     No  sooner 


86  A  CHAIR  ON  TKE  BOULEVARD 

had  she  done  so,  however,  than  she  deeply  re- 
gretted the  indiscretion,  for  it  stimulated  the 
young  man  to  a  howl  positively  harrowing. 

An  impatient  movement  of  her  graceful  shoul-^ 
ders  protested  against  these  demonstrations,  but 
as  she  had  her  back  to  him,  she  could  not  tell 
whether  he  observed  her.  Stealing  a  glance,  she 
discovered  that  his  face  was  buried  in  his  hands, 
and  that  the  white  table  seemed  to  be  laid  for 
ten  covers.  Scrutiny  revealed  ten  bottles  of  wine 
around  it,  the  neck  of  each  bottle  embellished 
with  a  large  crape  bow.  Curiosity  now  held  the 
lady  wide-eyed,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  the 
young  man,  at  this  moment,  raised  his  head. 

"I  trust  that  my  agony  does  not  disturb  you, 
madame?"  he  inquired,  meeting  her  gaze  with 
some  embarrassment. 

"I  must  confess,  monsieur,"  said  she,  ''that  you 
have  been  carrying  it  rather  far." 

He  accepted  the  rebuke  humbly.  "If  you 
divined  the  intensity  of  my  sufferings,  you  would 
be  lenient,"  he  murmured.  "Nevertheless,  it  was 
dishonest  of  me  to  moan  so  bitterly  before  seven 
o'clock,  when  my  claim  to  the  room  legally  be- 
gins.   I  entreat  your  pardon." 

"It  is  accorded  freely,"  said  the  lady,  mollified 
by  his  penitence.  "She  would  be  a  poor  mourner 
who  quarrelled  with  the  affliction  of  another." 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART      87 

Again  she  indulged  in  a  plaintive  sigh,  and  this 
time  the  young  man's  response  was  tactfully  har- 
monious. 

"Life  is  a  vale  of  tears,  madame,"  he  remarked, 
with  more  solicitude  than  originality. 

''You  may  indeed  say  so,  monsieur,"  she  as- 
sented.   ''To  have  lost  one  who  was  beloved " 

"It  must  be  a  heavy  blow ;  I  can  imagine  it !" 

He  had  made  a  curious  answer.  She  stared  at 
him,  perplexed. 

"You  can  'imagine'  it?" 

"Very  well." 

"But  you  yourself  have  experienced  such  a 
loss,  monsieur?"  faltered  the  widow  nervously. 
Had  trouble  unhinged  his  brain? 

"No,"  said  the  young  man;  "to  speak  by  the 
clock,  my  own  loss  has  not  yet  occurred." 

A  brief  silence  fell,  during  which  she  cast  un- 
easy glances  towards  the  door. 

He  added,  as  if  anxious  that  she  should  do  him 
justice:  "But  I  would  not  have  you  consider  my 
lamentations  premature." 

"Pow  true  it  is,"  breathed  the  lady,  "that  in 
this  world  no  human  soul  can  wholly  comprehend 
another!" 

"Mine  is  a  very  painful  history,"  he  warned 
her,  taking  the  hint;  "yet  if  it  will  serve  to  divert 
your  mind  from  your  own  misfortune,  I  shall 


88  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

be  honoured  to  confide  it  to  you.  Stay,  the 
tenth  invitation,  which  an  accident  prevented  my 
dispatching,  would  explain  the  circumstances 
tersely;  but  I  much  fear  that  the  room  is  too  dark 
for  you  to  decipher  all  the  subtleties.  Have  I 
your  permission  to  turn  up  the  gas?" 

''Do  so,  by  all  means,  monsieur,"  said  the  lady 
graciously.  And  the  light  displayed  to  her,  first, 
as  personable  a  young  man  as  she  could  have  de- 
sired to  see;  second,  an  imposing  card,  which  was 
inscribed  as  follows : 

MONSIEUR  ACHILLE   FLAMANT,  ARTIST, 

Forewarns  you  of  the 

DEATH  OF  HIS  CAREER 

The  Interment  will  take  place  at  the 

Cafe  of  the  Broken  Heart 

on  December  31st. 

Valedictory  N*B. — A  sympathetic  costume 

Victuals  will  be  appreciated. 

7  p.m. 

"I  would  call  your  attention  to  the  border  of 
cypress,  and  to  the  tomb  in  the  corner,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  melancholy  pride.  "You  may 
also  look  favourably  on  the  figure  with  the  shovel, 
which,  of  course,  depicts  me  in  the  act  of  burying 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART      89 

my  hopes.  It  is  a  symbolic  touch  that  no  hope 
is  visible." 

"It  is  a  very  artistic  production  altogether," 
said  the  widow,  dissembling  her  astonishment. 
"So  you  are  a  painter,  monsieur  Flamant?" 

"Again  speaking  by  the  clock,  I  am  a  painter," 
he  concurred;  "but  at  midnight  I  shall  no  longer 
be  in  a  position  to  say  so — in  the  morning  I  am 
pledged  to  the  life  commercial.  You  will  not 
marvel  at  my  misery  when  I  inform  you  that  the 
existence  of  Achille  Flamant,  the  artist,  will  ter- 
minate in  five  hours  and  twenty  odd  minutes!" 

"Well,  I  am  commercial  myself,"  she  said.  "I 
am  madame  Aurore,  the  Beauty  Specialist,  of 
the  rue  Baba.  Do  not  think  me  wanting  in  the 
finer  emotions,  but  I  assure  you  that  a  lucra- 
tive establishment  is  not  a  calamity." 

"Madame  Aurore,"  demurred  the  painter, 
with  a  bow,  "your  own  business  is  but  a  sister 
art.  In  your  atelier,  the  saffron  of  a  bad  com- 
plexion blooms  to  the  fairness  of  a  rose,  and  the 
bunch  of  a  lumpy  figure  is  modelled  to  the  grace 
of  Galatea.  With  me  it  will  be  a  different  pair 
of  shoes;  I  shall  be  condemned  to  perch  on  a 
stool  in  the  office  of  a  wine-merchant,  and  invoice 
vintages  which  my  thirty  francs  a  week  will  not 


90  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

allow  me  to  drink.  No  comparison  can  be  drawn 
between  your  lot  and  my  little." 

"Certainly  I  should  not  like  to  perch,"  she  con- 
fessed. 

"Would  you  rejoice  at  the  thirty  francs  a 
week?" 

"Well,  and  the  thirty  francs  a  week  are  also 
poignant.  But  you  may  rise,  monsieur ;  who  shall 
foretell  the  future?  Once  I  had  to  make  both 
ends  meet  with  less  to  coax  them  than  the  salary 
you  mention.  Even  when  my  poor  husband  was 
taken  from  me — heigho !"  she  raised  a  miniature 
handkerchief  delicately  to  her  eyes — "when  I  was 
left  alone  in  the  world,  monsieur,  my  affairs  were 
greatly  involved — I  had  practically  nothing  but 
my  resolve  to  succeed." 

"And  the  witchery  of  your  personal  attrac- 
tions, madame,"  said  the  painter  politely. 

"Ah!"  A  pensive  smile  rewarded  him.  "The 
business  was  still  in  its  infancy,  monsieur;  yet 
to-day  I  have  the  smartest  clientele  in  Paris.  I 
might  remove  to  the  rue  de  la  Paix  to-morrow  if 
I  pleased.  But,  I  say,  why  should  I  do  that?  I 
say,  why  a  reckless  rental  for  the  sake  of  a  fash- 
ionable address,  when  the  fashionable  men  and 
women  come  to  me  where  I  am?" 

"You  show  profound  judgment,  madame," 
saidFlamant.    "Why,  indeed !" 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART  91 

"And  you,  too,  will  show  good  judgment,  I 
am  convinced,"  continued  madame  Aurore,  re- 
grading  him  with  approval.  "You  have  an  air 
of  intellect.  If  your  eyebrows  were  elongated  a 
fraction  towards  the  temples — an  improvement 
that  might  be  effected  easily  enough  by  regular 
use  of  my  Persian  Pomade — ^you  would  acquire 
the  appearance  of  a  born  conqueror." 

"Alas,"  sighed  Flamant,  "my  finances  forbid 
my  profiting  by  the  tip!" 

"Monsieur,  you  wrong  me,"  murmured  the 
specialist  reproachfully.  "I  was  speaking  with 
no  professional  intent.  On  the  contrary,  if  you 
will  permit  me,  I  shall  take  joy  in  forwarding  a 
pot  to  you  gratis." 

"Is  it  possible?"  cried  Flamant:  "you  would 
really  do  this  for  me  ?  You  feel  for  my  sufferings 
so  much?" 

"Indeed,  I  regret  that  I  cannot  persuade  you 
to  reduce  the  sufferings,"  she  replied.  "But  tell 
me  why  you  have  selected  the  vocation  of  a  wine- 
merchant's  clerk." 

"Fate,  not  I,  has  determined  my  cul-de-sac  in 
life,"  rejoined  her  companion.  "It  is  like  this: 
my  father,  who  lacks  an  artistic  soul,  consented 
to  my  becoming  a  painter  only  upon  the  under- 
standing that  I  should  gain  the  Prix  de  Rome 
and  pursue  my  studies  in  Italy  free  of  any  ex- 


92  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

pense  to  him.  This  being  arranged,  he  agreed  to 
make  me  a  minute  allowance  in  the  meanwhile. 
By  a  concatenation  of  catastrophes  upon  which  it 
is  unnecessary  to  dwell,  the  Beaux- Arts  did  not 
accord  the  prize  to  me;  and,  at  the  end  of  last 
year,  my  parent  reminded  me  of  our  compact, 
with  a  vigour  which  nothing  but  the  relationship 
prevents  my  describing  as  'inhuman.'  He  in- 
sisted that  I  must  bid  farewell  to  aspiration  and 
renounce  the  brush  of  an  artist  for  the  quill  of  a 
clerk!  Distraught,  I  flung  myself  upon  my 
knees.  I  implored  him  to  reconsider.  My  tribu- 
lation would  have  moved  a  rock — ^it  even  moved 
his  heart !" 

"He  showed  you  mercy?" 

"He  allowed  me  a  respite." 

"It  was  for  twelve  months?" 

"Precisely.  What  rapid  intuitions  you  have! 
— if  I  could  remain  in  Paris,  we  should  become 
great  friends.  He  allowed  me  twelve  months^ 
respite.  If,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  Art  was  still 
inadequate  to  supply  my  board  and  lodging,  it 
was  covenanted  that,  without  any  more  ado,  I 
should  resign  myself  to  clerical  employment  at 
Nantes.  The  merchant  there  is  a  friend  of  the 
family,  and  had  offered  to  demonstrate  his  friend- 
ship by  paying  me  too  little  to  live  on.  Enfin, 
Fame  has  continued  coy.    The  year  expires  to- 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART     9S 

night.  I  have  begged  a  few  comrades  to  attend 
a  valedictory  dinner — and  at  the  stroke  of  mid- 
night, despairing  I  depart!" 

''Is  there  a  train?" 

"I  do  not  depart  from  Paris  till  after  break- 
fast to-morrow;  but  at  midnight  I  depart  from 
myself,  I  depart  psychologically — ^the  Achille 
Flamant  of  the  Hitherto  will  be  no  more." 

''I  understand,"  said  madame  Aurore,  moved. 
"As  you  say,  in  my  own  way  I  am  an  artist,  too, 
there  is  a  bond  between  us.  Poor  fellow,  it  is 
indeed  a  crisis  in  your  life!  .  .  .  Who  put  the 
crape  bows  on  the  bottles?  they  are  badly  tied. 
Shall  I  tie  them  properly  for  you?" 

"It  would  be  a  sweet  service,"  said  Flamant, 
"and  I  should  be  grateful.  How  gentle  you  are 
to  me — pomade,  bows,  nothing  is  too  much  for 
you!" 

"You  must  give  me  your  Nantes  address," 
she  said,  "and  I  will  post  the  pot  without  fail." 

"I  shall  always  keep  it,"  he  vowed — "not  the 
pomade,  but  the  pot — as  a  souvenir.  Will  you 
write  a  few  lines  to  me  at  the  same  time?" 

Her  gaze  was  averted;  she  toyed  with  her 
spoon.  "The  directions  will  be  on  the  label," 
she  said  timidly. 

"It  was  not  of  my  eyebrows  I  was  thinking," 
murmured  the  man. 


94  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

**What  should  I  say?  The  latest  quotation 
for  artificial  lashes,  or  a  development  in  dimple 
culture,  would  hardly  be  engrossing  to  you." 

''I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  anything  that 
concerned  you  would  engross  me." 

"It  would  be  so  unconventional,"  she  objected 
dreamily. 

''To  send  a  brief  message  of  encouragement? 
Have  we  not  talked  like  confidants?" 

''That  is  queerer  still." 

"I  admit  it.  Just  now  I  was  unaware  of  your 
existence,  and  suddenly  you  dominate  my 
thoughts.  How  do  you  work  these  miracles, 
madame?  Do  you  know  that  I  have  an  enor- 
mous favour  to  crave  of  you?" 

"What,  another  one?" 

"Actually!  Is  it  not  audacious  of  me?  Yet 
for  a  man  on  the  verge  of  parting  from  his  iden- 
tity, I  venture  to  hope  that  you  will  strain  a 
point." 

"The  circumstances  are  in  the  man's  favour," 
she  owned.  "Nevertheless,  much  depends  on 
what  the  point  is." 

"Well,  I  ask  nothing  less  than  that  you  accept 
the  invitation  on  the  card  that  you  examined; 
I  beg  you  to  soothe  my  last  hours  by  remaining 
to  dine." 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART     95 

"Oh,  but  really,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  am 
afraid " 

"You  cannot  urge  that  you  are  required  at 
your  atelier  so  late.  And  as  to  any  social  en- 
gagement, I  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm  that  my 
approaching  death  in  life  puts  forth  the  stronger 
claim." 

"On  me?  When  all  is  said,  a  new  acquaint- 
ance!" 

"What  is  Time?"  demanded  the  painter.  And 
she  was  not  prepared  with  a  reply. 

"Your  comrades  will  be  strangers  to  me,"  she 
argued. 

"It  is  a  fact  that  now  I  wish  they  were  not 
coming,"  acknowledged  the  host;  "but  they  are 
young  men  of  the  loftiest  genius,  and  some  day 
it  may  provide  a  piquant  anecdote  to  relate  how 
you  met  them  all  in  the  period  of  their  obscurity." 

"My  friend,"  she  said,  hurt,  "if  I  consented, 
it  would  not  be  to  gamer  anecdotes." 

"Ah,  a  million  regrets!"  he  cried;  "I  spoke 
foolishly." 

"It  was  tactless." 

"Yes — I  am  a  man.    Do  you  forgive?" 

"Yes — I  am  a  woman.  Well,  I  must  take  my 
bonnet  off!" 

"Oh,  you  are  not  a  woman,  but  an  angel! 


96  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

What  beautiful  hair  you  have !    And  your  hands, 
how  I  should  love  to  paint  them!" 

''I  have  painted  them,  myself — with  many 
preparations.  My  hands  have  known  labour, 
believe  me;  they  have  washed  up  plates  and 
dishes,  and  often  the  dishes  had  provided  little  to 
eat." 

"Poor  girl!  One  would  never  suspect  that 
you  had  struggled  like  that." 

"How  feelingly  you  say  it!  There  have  been 
few  to  show  me  sympathy.  Oh,  I  assure  you, 
my  life  has  been  a  hard  one;  it  is  a  hard  one 
now,  in  spite  of  my  success.  Constantly,  when 
customers  moan  before  my  mirrors,  I  envy  them, 
if  they  did  but  know  it.  I  think:  'Yes,  you 
have  a  double  chin,  and  your  eyes  have  lost  their 
fire,  and  nasty  curly  little  veins  are  spoiling  the 
pallor  of  your  nose;  but  you  have  the  affection 
of  husband  and  child,  while  I  have  nothing  but 
fees.'  What  is  my  destiny?  To  hear  great- 
grandmothers  grumble  because  I  cannot  give 
them  back  their  girlhood  for  a  thousand  francs! 
To  devote  myself  to  making  other  women  be- 
loved, while  I  remain  loveless  in  my  shop !" 

"Honestly,  my  heart  aches  for  you.  If  I 
might  presume  to  advise,  I  would  say,  'Do  not 
allow  the  business  to  absorb  your  youth — you 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART     97 

were  meant  to  be  worshipped.'  And  yet,  while 
I  recommend  it,  I  hate  to  think  of  another  man 
worshipping  you." 

"Why  should  you  care,  my  dear?  But  there 
is  no  likelihood  of  that;  I  am  far  too  busy  to 
seek  worshippers.  A  propos  an  idea  has  just 
occurred  to  me  which  might  be  advantageous 
to  us  both.  If  you  could  inform  your  father 
that  you  would  be  able  to  earn  rather  more  next 
year  by  remaining  in  Paris  than  by  going  to 
Nantes,  would  it  be  satisfactory?" 

"Satisfactory?"  ejaculated  Flamant.  "It 
would  be  ecstatic!  But  how  shall  I  acquire  such 
information?" 

"Would  you  like  to  paint  a  couple  of  portraits 
of  me?" 

"I  should  like  to  paint  a  thousand.*' 

"My  establishment  is  not  a  picture-gallery. 
Listen.  I  offer  you  a  commission  for  two  por- 
traits: one,  present  day,  let  us  say,  moderately 
attractive — — " 

"I  decline  to  libel  you." 

"O,  flatterer!  The  other,  depicting  my  faded 
aspect  before  I  discovered  the  priceless  secrets 
of  the  treatment  that  I  practise  in  the  rue  Baba. 
I  shall  hang  them  both  in  the  reception-room.  I 
must  look  at  least  a  decade  older  in  the  'Before' 


98  A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

than  in  the  'After/  and  it  must,  of  course,  present 
the  appearance  of  having  been  painted  some 
years  ago.    That  can  be  faked?" 

"Perfectly." 

"You  accept?" 

"I  embrace  your  feet.  You  have  saved  my 
life;  you  have  preserved  my  hopefulness,  you 
have  restored  my  youth!" 

"It  is  my  profession  to  preserve  and  restore." 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  gasped  Flamant  in  a  par- 
oxysm of  adoration.  "Aurore,  I  can  no  longer 
refrain  from  avowing  that " 

At  this  instant  the  door  opened,  and  there 
entered  solemnly  nine  young  men,  garbed  in 
such  habiliments  of  woe  as  had  never  before  been 
seen  perambulating,  even  on  the  figures  of  under- 
takers. The  foremost  bore  a  wreath  of  immor- 
telles, which  he  laid  in  devout  silence  on  the  din- 
ner-table. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Flamant,  recovering  him- 
self by  a  stupendous  effort:  "monsieur  Tricotrin, 
the  poet — madame  Aurore." 

"Enchanted!"  said  the  poet,  in  lugubrious 
tones.  "I  have  a  heavy  cold,  thank  you,  owing 
to  my  having  passed  the  early  hours  of  Christmas 
Day  on  a  bench,  in  default  of  a  bed.  It  is  super- 
fluous to  inquire  as  to  the  health  of  madame." 

"Monsieur  Goujaud,  a  colleague." 


THE  CAFE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART      99 

"Overjoyed!"  responded  Goujaud,  with  a  vio- 
lent sneeze. 

"Goujaud  was  with  me,"  said  Tricotrin. 

"Monsieur  Pitou,  the  composer." 

"I  ab  hodoured.  I  trust  badabe  is  dot  dervous 
of  gerbs?    There  is  dothidg  to  fear,"  said  Pitou. 

"So  was  Pitou!"  added  Tricotrin. 

"Monsieur  Sanquereau,  the  sculptor;  mon- 
sieur Lajeunie,  the  novelist,"  continued  the  host. 
But  before  he  could  present  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany, Brochat  was  respectfully  intimating  to  the 
widow  that  her  position  in  the  Weeping  Alone 
apartment  was  now  untenable.  He  was  imme- 
diately commanded  to  lay  another  cover. 

"Madame  and  comrades,"  declaimed  Tricotrin, 
unrolling  a  voluminous  manuscript,  as  they  took 
their  seats  around  the  pot-au-feu,  "I  have  com- 
posed for  this  piteous  occasion  a  brief  poem!" 

"I  must  beseech  your  pardon,"  stammered 
Flamant,  rising  in  deep  confusion;  "I  have  nine 
apologies  to  tender.  Gentlemen,  this  touching 
wreath  for  the  tomb  of  my  career  finds  the  tomb 
unready.  These  affecting  garments  which  you 
have  hired  at,  I  fear,  ruinous  expense,  should  be 
exchanged  for  bunting;  that  immortal  poem  with 
which  our  friend  w^ould  favour  us  has  been  sud- 
denly deprived  of  all  its  point." 


100         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Explain!  explain!"  volleyed  from  nine 
throats. 

"I  shall  still  read  it,"  insisted  Tricotrin,  "it 
is  good." 

"The  lady — ^nay,  the  goddess — ^whom  you  be- 
hold, has  showered  commissions,  and  for  one  year 
more  I  shall  still  be  in  your  midst.  Brothers  in 
art,  brothers  in  heart,  I  ask  you  to  charge  your 
glasses,  and  let  your  voices  ring.  The  toast  is, 
'Madame  Aurore  and  her  gift  of  the  New 
Year!'  " 

"Madame  Aurore  and  her  gift  of  the  New 
Year!"  shrieked  the  nine  young  men,  springing 
to  their  feet. 

"In  a  year  much  may  happen,"  said  the  lady 
tremulously. 

And  when  they  had  all  sat  down  again,  Fla- 
mant  was  thrilled  to  find  her  hand  in  his  beneath 
the  table. 


THE  DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  MONSIEUR 
POMPONNET 

It  was  thanks  to  Touquet  that  she  was  able 
to  look  so  chic — the  little  baggage! — ^j^et  of  all 
her  suitors  Touquet  was  the  one  she  favoured 
least.  He  was  the  costumier  at  the  corner  of  the 
rue  des  Martyrs,  and  made  a  very  fair  thing  of 
the  second-hand  clothes.  It  was  to  Touquet's 
that  the  tradesmen  of  the  quarter  turned  as  a 
matter  of  course  to  hire  dress-suits  for  their  nup- 
tials;  it  was  in  the  well-cleaned  satins  of  Touquet 
that  the  brides'  mothers  and  the  lady  guests  cut 
such  imposing  figures  when  they  were  photo- 
graphed after  the  wedding  breakfasts;  it  was 
even  Touquet  who  sometimes  supplied  a  gown 
to  one  or  another  of  the  humble  actresses  at  the 
Theatre  Montmartre,  and  received  a  couple  of 
free  tickets  in  addition  to  his  fee.  I  tell  you  that 
Touquet  was  not  a  person  to  be  sneezed  at, 
though  he  had  passed  the  first  flush  of  youth,  and 
was  never  an  Adonis. 

Besides,  who  was  she,  this  little  Lisette,  who 
had  the  impudence  to  flout  him?     A  girl  in  a 

101 


lOS         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

florist's,  if  you  can  believe  me,  with  no  particular 
beauty  bjerseilf;, ; a^nd  not  a  sou  by  way  of  dot! 
Aijd.yetTTT-one.must  confess  it — slie  turned  a  head 
as  swiflly  a!> -she* made  a  "buttonhole";  and  Pom- 
ponnet,  the  pastrycook,  was  paying  court  to  her, 
too — ^to  say  nothing  of  the  homage  of  messieurs 
Tricotrin,  the  poet,  and  Goujaud,  the  painter, 
and  Lajeunie,  the  novelist.  You  would  never 
have  guessed  that  her  wages  were  only  twenty 
francs  a  week,  as  you  watched  her  waltz  with 
Tricotrin  at  the  ball  on  Saturday  evening,  or  as 
you  saw  her  enter  Pomponnet's  shop,  when  the 
shutters  were  drawn,  to  feast  on  his  strawberry 
tarts.  Her  costumes  were  the  cynosure  of  the 
boulevard  Rochechouart ! 

And  they  were  all  due  to  Touquet,  Touquet 
the  infatuated,  who  lent  the  fine  feathers  to  her 
for  the  sake  of  a  glance,  or  a  pressure  of  the  hand 
— and  wept  on  his  counter  afterwards  while  he 
wondered  whose  arms  might  be  embracing  her  in 
the  costumes  that  he  had  cleaned  and  pressed 
with  so  much  care.  Often  he  swore  that  his  folly 
should  end — ^that  she  should  be  affianced  to  him, 
or  go  shabby;  but,  lo!  in  a  day  or  two  she  would 
make  her  appearance  again,  to  coax  for  the  loan 
of  a  smart  blouse,  or  "that  hat  with  the  giant  rose 
and  the  ostrich  plume" — and  Touquet  would  be 
as  weak  as  ever. 


DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  M.  POMPONNET    lOB 

Judge,  then,  of  his  despair  when  he  heard  that 
she  had  agreed  to  marry  Pomponnet!  She  told 
him  the  news  with  the  air  of  an  amiable  gossip 
when  she  came  to  return  a  ball-dress  that  she  had 
borrowed. 

"Enfin,"  she  said — perched  on  the  counter, 
and  swinging  her  remorseless  feet — "it  is  ar- 
ranged; I  desert  the  flowers  for  the  pastry,  and 
become  the  mistress  of  a  shop.  I  shall  have  to 
beg  from  my  good  friend  monsieur  Touquet  no 
more — ^not  at  all!  I  shall  be  his  client,  like  the 
rest.    It  will  be  better,  hein?" 

Touquet  groaned.  "You  know  well,  Lisette," 
he  answered,  "that  it  has  been  a  joy  to  me  to 
place  the  stock  at  your  disposal,  even  though  it 
was  to  make  you  more  attractive  in  the  eyes  of 
other  men.  Everything  here  that  you  have  worn 
possesses  a  charm  to  me.  I  fondle  the  garments 
when  you  bring  them  back;  I  take  them  down 
from  the  pegs  and  dream  over  them.  Truly! 
There  is  no  limit  to  my  weakness,  for  often  when 
a  client  proposes  to  hire  a  frock  that  you  have 
had,  I  cannot  bear  that  she  should  profane  it,  and 
I  say  that  it  is  engaged." 

"You  dear,  kind  monsieur  Touquet,"  mur- 
mured the  coquette;  "how  agreeable  you  are!" 

"I  have  always  hoped  for  the  day  when  the 
stock  would  be  all  your  own,  Lisette.    And  by- 


104         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

and-by  we  might  have  removed  to  a  better  posi- 
tion— even  down  the  hill.  Who  knows?  We 
might  have  opened  a  business  in  the  Madeleine 
quarter.  That  would  suit  you  better  than  a  little 
cake-shop  up  a  side  street?  And  I  would  have 
risked  it  for  you — I  know  how  you  incline  to 
fashion.  When  I  have  taken  you  to  a  theatre, 
did  you  choose  the  Montmartre — where  we  might 
have  gone  for  nothing — or  the  Moncey?  Not 
you! — ^that  might  do  for  other  girls.  You  have 
always  demanded  the  theatres  of  the  Grand  Bou- 
levard ;  a  cup  of  coffee  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  is 
more  to  your  taste  than  a  bottle  of  beer  and  hard- 
boiled  eggs  at  The  Nimble  Rabbit.  Heaven 
knows  I  trust  you  will  be  happy,  but  I  cannot 
persuade  myself  that  this  Pomponnet  shares  your 
ambitions ;  with  his  slum  and  his  stale  pastry  he 
is  quite  content." 

"It  is  not  stale,"  she  said. 

"Well,  we  will  pass  his  pastry — though,  word 
of  honour,  I  bought  some  there  last  week  that 
might  have  been  baked  before  the  Commune ;  but 
to  recur  to  his  soul,  is  it  an  affinity?" 

"Affinities  are  always  hard  up,"  she  pouted. 

"Zut!"  exclaimed  Touquet;  "now  your  mind 
is  running  on  that  monsieur  Tricotrin — by  'affin- 
ities' I  do  not  mean  hungry  poets.     Why  not 


DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  M.  POMPONNET    105 

have  entrusted  your  happiness  to  me?  I  adore 
you,  I  have  told  you  a  thousand  times  that  I 
adore  you.  Lisette,  consider  before  it  is  too  late! 
You  cannot  love  this — ^this  obscure  baker?" 

She  gave  a  shrug.  ''It  is  a  fact  that  devotion 
has  not  robbed  me  of  my  appetite,"  she  confessed. 
"But  what  would  you  have?  His  business 
goes  far  better  than  you  imagine — I  have  seen 
his  books;  and  anyhow,  my  sentiment  for  you 
is  friendship,  and  no  more." 

"To  the  devil  with  friendship!"  cried  the  un- 
happy wardrobe-dealer;  "did  I  dress  you  like  the 
Empress  Josephine  for  friendship?" 

"Do  not  mock  yourself  of  it,"  she  said  reprov- 
ingly; "remember  that  'Friendship  is  a  beautiful 
flower,  of  which  esteem  is  the  stem.'  "  And,  hav- 
ing thrown  the  adage  to  him,  coupled  with  a 
glance  that  drove  him  to  distraction,  the  little  flirt 
jumped  off  the  counter  and  was  gone. 

Much  more  reluctantly  she  contemplated  part- 
ing with  him  whom  the  costumier  had  described 
as  a  "hungry  poet" ;  but  matrimony  did  not  enter 
the  poet's  scheme  of  things,  nor  for  that  matter 
had  she  ever  regarded  him  as  a  possible  parti. 
Yet  a  woman  may  give  her  fancy  where  her  rea- 
son refuses  to  follow,  and  when  she  imparted  her 
news  to  Tricotrin  there  was  no  smile  on  her  lips. 


106        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"We  shall  not  go  to  balls  any  more,  old  dear," 
she  said,  "Monsieur  Pomponnet  has  proposed 
marriage  to  me — and  I  settle  down." 

"Heartless  girl,"  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "So  much  for  woman's 
constancy!" 

"Mon  Dieu,"  she  faltered,  "did  you  then  love 
me,  Gustave — ^really?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Tricotrin,  "but  since  I 
am  to  lose  you,  I  prefer  to  think  so.  Ah,  do  not 
grieve  for  me — fortunately,  there  is  always  the 
Seine!  And  jBrst  I  shall  pour  my  misery  into 
song;  and  in  years  to  come,  fair  daughters  at 
your  side  will  read  the  deathless  poem,  little 
dreaming  that  the  Lisette  I  sang  to  is  their 
mother.  Some  time — long  after  I  am  in  my 
grave,  when  France  has  honoured  me  at  last — 
you  may  stand  before  a  statue  that  bears  my 
name,  and  think,  'He  loved  me,  and  I  broke  his 
heart!'" 

"Oh,"  she  whimpered,  "rather  than  break  your 
heart  I — I  might  break  the  engagement!  I 
might  consider  again,  Gustave." 

"No,  no,"  returned  Tricotrin,  "I  will  not  re- 
proach myself  with  the  thought  that  I  have 
marred  your  life;  I  will  leave  you  free.  Besides, 
as  I  say,  I  am  not  certain  that  I  should  want  you 
so  much  but  for  the  fact  that  I  have  lost  you. 


DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  M.  POMPONNET  107 

After  all,  you  will  not  appreciate  the  poem  that 
immortalises  you,  and  if  I  lived,  many  of  your 
remarks  about  it  would  doubtless  infuriate  me." 

"Why  shall  I  not  appreciate  it?  Am  I  so 
stupid?" 

*'It  is  not  that  you  are  stupid,  my  Soul,"  he 
explained;  "it  is  that  I  am  transcendentally 
clever.  To  understand  the  virtues  of  my  work 
one  must  have  sipped  from  all  the  flowers  of 
Literature.  'There  is  to  be  found  in  it  Racine, 
Voltaire,  Flaubert,  Renan — and  always  Gustave 
Tricotrin,'  as  Lemaitre  has  written.  He  wrote, 
' — and  always  Anatole  France,'  but  I  paraphrase 
him  slightly.  So  you  are  going  to  marry  Pom- 
ponnet  ?  Mon  Dieu,  when  I  have  any  sous  in  my 
pocket,  I  will  ruin  myself,  for  the  rapture  of 
regretting  you  among  the  pastry!" 

"I  thought,"  she  said,  a  little  mortified,  "that 
you  were  going  to  drown  yourself?" 

"Am  I  not  to  write  my  Lament  to  you?  I 
must  eat  while  I  write  it — why  not  pastry?  Also, 
when  I  am  penniless  and  starving,  you  may  some- 
times, in  your  prosperity And  yet,  perhaps, 

it  is  too  much  to  ask?" 

"Give  you  tick,  do  you  mean,  dear?  But  yes, 
Gustave;  how  can  you  doubt  that  I  will  do  that? 
In  memory  of " 

"In  memory  of  the  love  that  has  been,  you  will 


108         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

allow  me  to  run  up  a  small  score  for  cakes,  will 
you  not,  Lisette?" 

"I  will,  indeed!"  she  promised.    "But,  but 

Oh,  it's  quite  true,  I  should  never  understand 
you!  A  minute  ago  you  made  me  think  of  you 
in  the  Morgue,  and  now  you  make  me  think  of 
you  in  the  cake-shop.     What  are  you  laughing 

atr 

''I  laugh,  like  Figaro,"  said  Tricotrin,  "that  I 
may  not  he  obliged  to  weep.  When  are  you  go- 
ing to  throw  yourself  away,  my  little  Lisette? 
Has  my  accursed  rival  induced  you  to  fix  a  date?" 

"We  are  to  be  married  in  a  fortnight's  time," 
she  said.  "And  if  you  could  undertake  to  be 
sensible,  I  would  ask  Alphonse  to  invite  you  to 
the  breakfast." 

"In  a  fortnight's  time  hunger  and  a  hopeless 
passion  will  probably  have  made  an  end  of  me," 
replied  the  poet;  "however,  if  I  survive,  the 
breakfast  will  certainly  be  welcome.  Where  is  it 
to  be  held?  I  can  recommend  a  restaurant  that 
is  especially  fine  at  such  affairs,  and  most  mod- 
erate. 'Photographs  of  the  party  are  taken  gra- 
tuitously in  the  Jardin  d'Acclimatation,  and 
pianos  are  at  the  disposal  of  the  ladies' ;  I  quote 
from  the  menu — I  study  it  in  the  window  every 
time  I  pass.  There  are  wedding  breakfasts  from 
six  to  twelve  francs  per  head.    At  six  francs,  the 


DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  M.  POMPONNET  109 

party  have  their  choice  of  two  soups  and  three 
hors  d'oeuvres.  Then  comes  *poisson'— I  fear  it 
may  be  whiting — filet  de  boeuf  with  tomates 
farcies,  bouchees  a  la  Reine,  chicken,  pigeons, 
salad,  two  vegetables,  an  ice,  assorted  fruits,  and 
biscuits.  The  wines  are  madeira,  a  bottle  of 
macon  to  each  person,  a  bottle  of  bordeaux 
among  four  persons,  and  a  bottle  of  champagne 
among  ten  persons.  Also  coffee  and  liqueurs. 
At  six  francs  a  head!  It  is  good,  hein?  At 
seven  francs  there  is  a  bottle  of  champagne 
among  every  eight  persons — Pomponnet  will,  of 
course,  do  as  he  thinks  best.  At  eight  francs,  a 
bottle  is  provided  for  every  six  persons.  I  have 
too  much  delicacy  to  make  suggestions,  but 
should  he  be  willing  to  soar  to  twelve  francs  a 
head,  I  might  eat  enough  to  last  a  week — and  of 
such  quality!  The  soups  would  then  be  bisque 
d'ecrevisse  and  consomme  Rachel.  Rissoles  de 
foies  gras  would  appear^  Asparagus  'in 
branches,'  and  compote  of  peaches  flavoured  with 
maraschino  would  be  included.  Also,  in  the 
twelve-franc  breakfast,  the  champagne  begins  to 
have  a  human  name  on  the  label!" 

Now,  it  is  not  certain  how  much  of  this  infor- 
mation Lisette  repeated  to  Pomponnet,  but  Pom- 
ponnet, having  a  will  of  his  own,  refused  to  enter- 
tain monsieur  Tricotrin  at  any  price  at  all.  More- 


110         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

over,  he  found  it  unconventional  that  she  should 
desire  the  poet's  company,  considering  the  atten- 
tions that  he  had  paid  her;  and  she  was  forced 
to  listen,  with  an  air  of  humility  which  she  was 
far  from  feeling,  to  a  lecture  on  the  responsibili- 
ties of  her  new  position. 

"I  am  not  a  jealous  man,"  said  the  pastrycook, 
who  was  as  jealous  a  man  as  ever  baked  a  pie; 
"but  it  would  be  discreet  that  you  dropped  this 
acquaintance  now  that  we  are  engaged.  I  know 
well  that  you  have  never  taken  the  addresses  of 
such  a  fellow  seriously,  and  that  it  is  only  in  the 
goodness  of  your  heart  you  wish  to  present  him 
with  a  blow-out.  Nevertheless,  the  betrothal  of 
a  man  in  my  circumstances  is  much  remarked; 
all  the  daughters  of  the  hairdresser  next  door 
have  had  their  hopes  of  me — indeed,  there  is 
scarcely  a  neighbour  who  is  not  chagrined  at  the 
turn  events  have  taken — and  the  world  would  be 
only  too  glad  of  an  excuse  to  call  me  'fool.' 
Pomponnet's  wife  must  be  above  suspicion.  You 
will  remember  that  a  little  lightness  of  conduct 
which  might  be  forgiven  in  the  employee  of  the 
florist  would  be  unseemly  in  my  fiancee.  No 
more  conversation  with  monsieur  Tricotrin, 
Lisette!  Some  dignity — some  coldness  in  the 
bow  when  you  pass  him.  The  boulevard  will 
observe  it,  it  will  be  approved." 


DRESS  CLOTHES  ^F  M.  POMPONNET  111 

"You,  of  course,  know  best,  my  dear  Al* 
phonse,"  she  returned  meekly;  ''I  am  only  an 
inexperienced  girl,  and  I  am  thankful  to  have 
your  advice  to  guide  me.  But  let  me  say  that 
never,  never  has  there  been  any  'lightness  of  con- 
duct,' to  distress  you.  Monsieur  Tricotrin  and 
I  have  been  merely  friends.  If  I  have  gone  to 
a  ball  with  him  sometimes — and  I  acknowledge 
that  has  happened — it  has  been  because  nobody 
more  to  my  taste  has  offered  to  take  me."  She 
had  ground  her  little  teeth  under  the  infliction 
of  his  homily,  and  it  was  only  by  dint  of  think- 
ing hard  of  his  profits  that  she  abstained  from 
retorting  that  he  might  marry  all  the  daughters 
of  the  hairdresser  and  go  to  Uganda. 

However,  during  the  next  week  or  so,  she  did 
not  chance  to  meet  the  poet  on  the  boulevard; 
and  since  she  wished  to  conquer  her  tenderness 
for  him,  one  cannot  doubt  that  all  would  have 
been  well  but  for  the  Editor  of  UEcho  de  la 
Butte.  By  a  freak  of  fate,  the  Editor  of  UEcho 
de  la  Butte  was  moved  to  invite  monsieur  Tri- 
cotrin to  an  affair  of  ceremony  two  days  previous 
to  the  wedding.  What  followed?  Naturally 
Tricotrin  must  present  himself  in  evening  dress. 
Naturally,  also,  he  must  go  to  Touquet's  to  hire 
the  suit. 

''Regard,"  said  the  costumier,  "here  is  a  suit 


112         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

that  I  have  just  acquired.  Monsieur  will  observe 
that  it  is  of  the  most  distinguished  cut — quite  in 
the  latest  fashion.  I  will  whisper  to  monsieur 
that  it  comes  to  me  through  the  valet  of 
the  Comte  de  St.-Nom-la-Breteche-Foret-de- 
Marly." 

''Mon  Dieu!"  said  Tricotrin,  "let  me  try  it  on!" 
And  he  was  so  gratified  by  his  appearance  in  it 
that  he  barely  winced  at  the  thought  of  the  ex- 
pense. "I  am  improving  my  position,"  he  solilo- 
quised; "if  I  have  not  precisely  inherited  the  man- 
tle of  Victor  Hugo,  I  have,  at  any  rate,  hired  the 
dress-suit  of  the  Comte  de  St.-Nom-la-Breteche- 
Foret-de-Marly!" 

Never  had  a  more  impressive  spectacle  been 
witnessed  in  Montmartre  than  Tricotrin's  depar- 
ture from  his  latest  lodging  shortly  after  six 
o'clock.  Wearing  a  shirt  of  Pitou's,  Flamant's 
patent-leather  boots,  and  a  white  tie  contributed 
by  Goujaud,  the  young  man  sallied  forth  with 
the  deportment  of  the  Count  himself.  Only  one 
thing  more  did  he  desire,  a  flower  for  his  button- 
hole— and  Lisette  remained  in  her  situation  until 
the  morrow!  What  more  natural,  finally,  than 
that  he  should  hie  him  to  the  florist's? 

It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  seen  her  lover 
in  evening  dress,  and  sentiment  overpowered  her 
as  he  entered. 


DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  M.  POMPONNET  113 

'*Thou!"  she  murmured,  paling. 

On  the  poet,  too,  the  influence  of  the  clothes 
was  very  strong;  attired  like  a  jeune  premier,  he 
craved  with  all  the  dramatic  instinct  of  his  nature 
for  a  love  scene ;  and,  instead  of  fulfilling  his  in- 
tention to  beg  for  a  rosebud  at  cost  price,  he 
gazed  at  her  soulfully  and  breathed  "Lisette!" 

''So  we  have  met  again!"  she  said. 

"The  world  is  small,"  returned  the  poet,  ignor- 
ing the  fact  that  he  had  come  to  the  shop.  "And 
am  I  yet  remembered?" 

"It  is  not  likely  I  should  forget  you  in  a  few 
days,"  she  said,  more  practically;  "I  didn't  for- 
get about  the  breakfast,  either,  but  Alphonse 
put  his  foot  down." 

"Pig!"  said  the  poet.  "And  yet  it  may  be  bet- 
ter so!    How  could  I  eat  in  such  an  hour?" 

"However,  you  are  not  disconsolate  this  even- 
ing?" she  suggested.  "Mais  vrai!  what  a  swell 
you  are!" 

"Flute!  some  fashionable  assembly  that  will 
bore  me  beyond  endurance,"  he  sighed.  "With 
you  alone,  Lisette,  have  I  known  true  happiness 
— the  tram  rides  on  summer  nights  that  were  joy- 
ous because  we  loved ;  the  simple  meals  that  were 
sweetened  by  your  smile!" 

"Ah,  Gustave!"  she  said.  "Wait,  I  must  give 
you  a  flower  for  your  coat!" 


114         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"I  shall  keep  it  all  my  life!"  vowed  Tricotrin. 
''Tell  me,  little  one — I  dare  not  stay  now,  because 
my  host  lives  a  long  way  off — but  this  evening, 
could  you  not  meet  me  once  again?  For  the 
last  time,  to  say  farewell?  I  have  nearly  two 
francs  fifty,  and  we  might  go  to  supper,  if  you 
agree." 

It  was  arranged  before  he  took  leave  of  her 
that  she  should  meet  him  outside  the  debit  at  the 
corner  of  the  rue  de  Sontay  at  eleven  o'clock, 
and  sup  with  him  there,  in  a  locality  where  she 
was  unlikely  to  be  recognised.  Rash  enough,  this 
conduct,  for  a  young  woman  who  was  to  be  mar- 
ried to  another  man  on  the  next  day  but  one! 
But  a  greater  imprudence  was  to  follow.  They 
supped,  they  sentimentalised,  and  when  they 
parted  in  the  Champs  Elysees  and  the  moonshine, 
she  gave  him  from  her  bosom  a  little  rose-coloured 
envelope  that  contained  nothing  less  than  a  lock 
of  her  hair. 

The  poet  placed  it  tenderly  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket;  and,  after  he  had  wept,  and  quoted 
poetry  to  the  stars,  forgot  it.  He  began  to  wish 
that  he  had  not  mixed  his  liquors  quite  so  impar- 
tially; and,  on  the  morrow,  when  he  woke,  he  was 
mindful  of  nothing  more  grievous  than  a  splitting 
headache. 

Now  Touquet,  who  could  not  sleep  of  nights 


DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  M.  POMPONNET   115 

because  the  pastrycook  was  going  to  marry 
Lisette,  made  a  practice  of  examining  the  pock- 
ets of  all  garments  returned  to  him,  with  an  eye 
to  stray  sous ;  and  when  he  proceeded  to  examine 
the  pockets  of  the  dress-suit  returned  by  monsieur 
Tricotrin,  what  befell  but  that  he  drew  forth  a 
rose-tinted  envelope  containing  a  tress  of  hair, 
and  inscribed,  "To  Gustave,  from  Lisette, 
Adieu." 

And  the  Editor  who  invited  monsieur  Trico- 
trin  had  never  heard  of  Lisette;  never  heard  of 
Pomponnet;  did  not  know  that  such  a  person  as 
Touquet  existed;  yet  the  editorial  caprice  had 
manipulated  destinies.  How  powerful  are  Edi- 
tors !    How  complicated  is  life ! 

But  a  truce  to  philosophy — let  us  deal  with  the 
emotions  of  the  soul!  The  shop  reeled  before 
Touquet.  All  the  good  and  the  bad  in  his  char- 
acter battled  tumultuously.  In  one  moment  he 
aspired  to  be  generous  and  restore  to  Lisette  the 
evidence  of  her  guilt ;  in  the  next  he  sank  to  the 
base  thought  of  displaying  it  to  Pomponnet  and 
breaking  off  the  match.  The  discovery  fired  his 
brain.  No  longer  was  he  a  nonentity,  the  odd 
man  out — chance  had  transformed  him  to  the 
master  of  the  situation.  Full  well  he  knew  that 
there  would  be  no  nuptials  next  day  were  Pom- 
ponnet aware  of  his  fiancee's  perfidy;  it  needed 


116         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

but  to  go  to  him  and  say,  "Monsieur,  my  sense  of 

duty  compels  me  to  inform  you "    How  easy 

it  would  be !    He  laughed  hysterically. 

But  Lisette  would  never  pardon  such  a  mean- 
ness— she  would  always  despise  and  hate  him! 
He  would  have  torn  her  from  his  rival's  arms, 
it  was  true,  yet  his  own  would  still  be  empty. 
"Ah,  Lisette,  Lisette!"  groaned  the  wretched 
man ;  and,  swept  to  evil  by  the  force  of  passion, 
he  cudgelled  his  mind  to  devise  some  piece  of 
trickery,  some  diabolical  artifice,  by  which  the 
incriminating  token  might  be  placed  in  the  pas- 
trycook's hands  as  if  by  accident. 

And  while  he  pondered — his  "whole  soul  a 
chaos" — in  that  hour  Pomponnet  entered  to  hire 
a  dress-suit  for  his  wedding! 

Touquet  raised  his  head,  blanched  to  the  lips. 

"Regard,"  he  said,  with  a  forced  calm  terrible 
to  behold;  "here  is  a  suit  that  I  have  just  ac- 
quired. Monsieur  will  observe  that  it  is  of  the 
most  distinguished  cut — quite  in  the  latest  fash- 
ion. I  will  whisper  to  monsieur  that  it  comes  to 
me  through  the  valet  of  the  Comte  de  St.-jSTom- 
la-Breteche-Foret-de-Marly."  And,  unseen  by 
the  guileless  bridegroom,  he  slipped  the  danming 
proof  into  a  pocket  of  the  trousers,  where  his 
knowledge  of  the  pastrycook's  attitudes  assured 


DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  M.  POMPONNET   117 

him  that  it  was  even  more  certain  to  be  found  than 
in  the  waistcoat. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  said  the  other,  duly  impressed  by^ 
the  suit's  pedigree;  'let  me  try  it  on.  .  .  .  The 
coat  is  rather  tight,"  he  complained,  ''but  it  has 
undeniably  an  air." 

"No  more  than  one  client  has  worn  it,"  gasped 
the  wardrobe  dealer  haggardly:  ''monsieur  Gus- 
tave  Tricotrin,  the  poet,  who  hired  it  last  night! 
The  suit  is  practically  new;  I  have  no  other  in 
the  establishment  to  compare  with  it.  Listen, 
monsieur  Pomponnet!  To  an  old  client  like 
yourself,  I  will  be  liberal;  wear  it  this  evening 
for  an  hour  in  your  home — if  you  find  it  not  to 
your  figure,  there  will  be  time  to  make  another 
selection  before  the  ceremony  to-morrow.  You 
shall  have  this  on  trial,  I  will  make  no  extra 
charge." 

Such  nmnificence  was  bound  to  have  its  effect, 
and  five  minutes  later  Touquet's  plot  had  pro- 
gressed. But  the  tension  had  been  frightful;  the 
door  had  scarcely  closed  when  he  sank  into  a 
chair,  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  day  he  attended  to  his  business  like  one 
moving  in  a  trance. 

Meanwhile,  the  unsuspecting  Pomponnet  re- 
viewed the  arrangement  with  considerable  satis- 


118         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

faction;  and  when  he  came  to  attire  himself, 
after  the  cake-shop  was  shut,  his  reflected  image 
pleased  him  so  well  that  he  was  tempted  to  stroll 
abroad.  He  decided  to  call  on  his  betrothed, 
and  to  exhibit  himself  a  little  on  the  boulevard. 
Accordingly,  he  put  some  money  in  the  pocket  of 
the  waistcoat,  oiled  his  silk  hat,  to  give  it  an  addi- 
tional lustre,  and  sallied  forth  in  high  good- 
humour. 

"How  splendid  you  look,  my  dear  Alphonse!" 
exclaimed  Lisette,  little  dreaming  it  was  the  same 
suit  that  she  had  approved  on  Tricotrin  the  pre- 
vious evening. 

Her  innocent  admiration  was  agreeable  to 
Pomponnet;  he  patted  her  on  the  cheek. 

"In  truth,"  he  said  carelessly,  ''I  had  forgot- 
ten that  I  had  it  on!  But  I  was  so  impatient  for 
to-morrow,  my  pet  angel,  that  I  could  not  remain 
alone  and  I  had  to  come  to  see  you." 

They  were  talking  on  her  doorstep,  for  she  had 
no  apartment  in  which  it  would  have  been  con- 
venable  to  entertain  him,  and  it  appeared  to  him 
that  the  terrace  of  a  cafe  would  be  more  con- 
genial. 

''Run  upstairs  and  make  your  toilette,  my  lov- 
ing duck,"  he  suggested,  "and  I  shall  take  you 
out  for  a  tasse.  While  you  are  getting  ready,  I 
will  smoke  a  cigar."    And  he  drew  his  cigar-case 


DRESS  CLOTHES  OF  M.  POMPONNET   119 

from  the  breast-pocket  of  the  coat,  and  took  a 
match-box  from  the  pocket  where  he  had  put  his 
cash. 

It  was  a  balmy  evening,  sweet  with  the  odour 
of  spring,  and  the  streets  were  full  of  life.  As  he 
promenaded  with  her  on  the  boulevard,  Pom- 
ponnet  did  not  fail  to  remark  the  attention  com- 
manded by  his  costume.  He  strutted  proudly, 
and  when  they  reached  the  cafe  and  took  their 
seats,  he  gave  his  order  with  the  authority  of  the 
President. 

"Ah!"  he  remarked,  "it  is  good  here,  hein?" 
And  then,  stretching  his  legs,  he  thrust  both  his 
hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  trousers.  ^'Com- 
ment?'^  he  murmured.  "What  have  I  found? 
.  .  •  Now  is  not  this  amusing — I  swear  it  is  a 
billet-doux!"  Pie  bent,  chuckling,  to  the  light — 
and  bounded  in  his  chair  with  an  oath  that  turned 
a  dozen  heads  towards  them.  "Traitress,"  roared 
Pomponnet,  "miserable  traitress!  It  is  your 
name !  It  is  your  writing!  It  is  your  hair!  Do 
not  deny  it ;  give  me  your  head — ^it  matches  to  a 
shade!  Jezebel,  last  night  you  met  monsieur 
Tricotrin — you  have  deceived  me!" 

Lisette,  who  had  jumped  as  high  as  he  in  rec- 
ognising the  envelope,  sat  like  one  paralysed  now. 
Her  tongue  refused  to  move.  For  an  instant,  the 
catastrophe  seemed  to  her  of  supernatural  agency 


120         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

— it  was  as  if  a  miracle  had  happened,  as  she  saw 
her  fiance  produce  her  lover's  keepsake.  All  she 
could  stammer  at  last  was : 

"Let  us  go  away — pay  for  the  coffee!" 

"I  wall  not  pay,"  shouted  monsieur  Pompon- 
net.  "Pay  for  it  yourself,  jade — I  have  done 
with  you!"  And,  leaving  her  spellbound  at  the 
table,  he  strode  from  the  terrace  like  a  madman 
before  the  waiters  could  stop  him. 

Oh,  of  course,  he  was  well  known  at  the  cafe, 
and  they  did  not  detain  Lisette,  but  it  was  a  most 
ignominious  position  for  a  young  woman.  And 
there  was  no  wedding  next  day,  and  everybody 
knew  w^hy.  The  little  coquette,  who  had  mocked 
suitors  by  the  dozen,  was  jilted  almost  on  the 
threshold  of  the  Mairie.  She  smacked  Tricotrin's 
face  in  the  morning,  but  her  humiliation  was  so 
acute  that  it  demanded  the  salve  of  immediate 
marriage ;  and  at  the  moment  she  could  think  of 
no  one  better  than  Touquet. 

So  Touquet  won  her  after  all.  And  though 
by  this  time  she  may  guess  how  he  accomplished 
it,  he  will  tell  you — ^word  of  honour! — ^that  never, 
never  has  he  had  occasion  for  regret. 


''j/fF' 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE 

Having  bought  the  rope,  Tournicquot  won- 
dered where  he  should  hang  himself.  The  lath- 
and-plaster  ceiling  of  his  room  might  decline  to 
support  him,  and  while  the  streets  were  populous 
a  lamp -post  was  out  of  the  question.  As  he 
hesitated  on  the  kerb,  he  reflected  that  a  pan  of 
charcoal  would  have  been  more  convenient  after 
all;  but  the  coil  of  rope  in  the  doorway  of  a 
shop  had  lured  his  fancy,  and  now  it  would  be 
laughable  to  throw  it  away. 

Tournicquot  was  much  averse  from  being 
laughed  at  in  private  life — perhaps  because  Fate 
had  willed  that  he  should  be  laughed  at  so  much 
in  his  public  capacity.  Could  he  have  had  his 
way,  indeed,  Tournicquot  would  have  been  a 
great  tragedian,  instead  of  a  little  droll,  whose 
portraits,  with  a  bright  red  nose  and  a  scarlet 
wig,  grimaced  on  the  hoardings ;  and  he  resolved 
that,  at  any  rate,  the  element  of  humour  should 
not  mar  his  suicide. 

As  to  the  motive  for  his  death,  it  was  as  roman- 
tic as  his  heart  desired.     He  adored  'Xa  Belle 

121 


122         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Lucrece,"  the  fascinating  Snake  Charmer,  and 
somewhere  in  the  background  the  artiste  had  a 
husband.  Little  the  audience  suspected  the  pas- 
sion tliit  devoured  their  grotesque  comedian 
while  he  cut  his  capers  and  turned  love  to  ridi- 
cule ;  little  they  divined  the  pathos  of  a  situation 
which  condemned  him  behind  the  scenes  to  whis- 
per the  most  sentimental  assurances  of  devotion 
when  disfigured  by  a  flaming  wig  and  a  nose  that 
was  daubed  vermilion!  How  nearly  it  has  been 
said,  One  half  of  the  world  does  not  know  how 
the  other  half  loves! 

But  such  incongruities  would  distress  Tournic- 
quot  no  more — to-day  he  was  to  die;  he  had 
worn  his  chessboard  trousers  and  his  little  green 
coat  for  the  last  time !  For  the  last  time  had  the 
relentless  virtue  of  Lucrece  driven  him  to  de- 
spair !  When  he  was  discovered  inanimate,  hang- 
ing to  a  beam,  nothing  comic  about  him,  perhaps 
the  world  would  admit  that  his  soul  had  been 
solemn,  though  his  ''line  of  business"  had  been 
funny;  perhaps  Lucrece  would  even  drop  warm 
tears  on  his  tomb ! 

It  was  early  in  the  evening.  Dusk  was  gather- 
ing over  Paris,  the  promise  of  dinner  was  in  the 
breeze.  The  white  glare  of  electric  globes  began 
to  flood  the  streets ;  and  before  the  cafes,  waiters 
bustled  among  the  tables,  bearing  the  vermouth 


,  THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  1^3 

and  absinthe  of  the  hour.  Instinctively  shunning 
the  more  frequented  thoroughfares,  Tournicquot 
crossed  the  boulevard  des  BatignoUes,  and  wan- 
dered, lost  in  reverie,  along  the  melancholy  con- 
tinuation of  the  rue  de  Rome  until  he  perceived 
that  he  had  reached  a  neighbourhood  unknown  to 
him — ^that  he  stood  at  the  corner  of  a  street  which 
bore  the  name  ''Rue  Sombre."  Opposite,  one  of 
the  houses  was  being  rebuilt,  and  as  he  gazed  at 
it — ^this  skeleton  of  a  home  in  which  the  work- 
men's hammers  were  silenced  for  the  night — 
Tournicquot  recognised  that  his  journey  was  at 
an  end.  Here,  he  could  not  doubt  that  he  would 
find  the  last,  grim  hospitality  that  he  sought. 
The  house  had  no  door  to  bar  his  entrance,  but — 
as  if  in  omen — above  the  gap  where  a  door  had 
been,  the  sinister  number  "13"  was  still  to  be  dis- 
cerned. He  cast  a  glance  over  his  shoulder,  and, 
grasping  the  rope  with  a  firm  hand,  crept  inside. 
It  was  dark  within,  so  dark  that  at  first  he 
could  discern  nothing  but  the  gleam  of  bare  walls. 
He  stole  along  the  passage,  and,  mounting  a 
flight  of  steps,  on  which  his  feet  sprung  mournful 
echoes,  proceeded  stealthily  towards  an  apart- 
ment on  the  first  floor.  At  this  point  the  dark- 
ness became  impenetrable,  for  the  volets  had  been 
closed,  and  in  order  to  make  his  arrangements,  it 
was  necessary  that  he  should  have  a  light.     He 


IM         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

paused,  fumbling  in  his  pocket;  and  then,  with 
his  next  step,  blundered  against  a  body,  which 
swung  from  the  contact,  like  a  human  being  sus- 
pended in  mid-air. 

Tournicquot  leapt  backwards  in  terror.  A 
cold  sweat  bespangled  him,  and  for  some  seconds 
he  shook  so  violently  that  he  was  unable  to  strike 
a  match.  At  last,  when  he  accomplished  it,  he 
beheld  a  man,  apparently  dead,  hanging  by  a 
rope  in  the  doorway. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  gasped  Tournicquot.  And 
the  thudding  of  his  hedrt  seemed  to  resound 
through  the  deserted  house. 

Humanity  impelled  him  to  rescue  the  poor 
wretch,  if  it  was  still  to  be  done.  Shuddering, 
he  whipped  out  his  knife,  and  sawed  at  the  cord 
desperately.  The  cord  was  stout,  and  the  blade 
of  the  knife  but  small ;  an  eternity  seemed  to  pass 
while  he  sawed  in  the  darkness.  Presently  one 
of  the  strands  gave  way.  He  set  his  teeth  and 
pressed  harder,  and  harder  yet.  Suddenly  the 
rope  yielded  and  the  body  fell  to  the  ground. 
Tournicquot  threw  himself  beside  it,  tearing  open 
the  collar,  and  using  frantic  efforts  to  restore  ani- 
mation. There  was  no  result.  He  persevered, 
but  the  body  lay  perfectly  inert.  He  began  to 
reflect  that  it  was  his  duty  to  inform  the  police  of 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  125 

the  discovery,  and  he  asked  himself  how  he  should 
account  for  his  presence  on  the  scene.  Just  as  he 
was  considering  this,  he  felt  the  stir  of  life.  As 
if  by  a  miracle  the  man  groaned. 

''Courage,  my  poor  fellow!"  panted  Tournic- 
quot.    "Courage — all  is  well !" 

The  man  groaned  again;  and  after  an  appall- 
ing silence,  during  which  Tournicquot  began  to 
tremble  for  his  fate  anew,  asked  feebly,  "Where 
am  I?" 

"You  would  have  hanged  yourself,"  explained 
Tournicquot.  "Thanks  to  Heaven,  I  arrived  in 
time  to  save  your  life!" 

In  the  darkness  they  could  not^see  each  other, 
but  he  felt  for  the  man's  hand  and  pressed  it 
warmly.  To  his  consternation,  he  received,  for 
response,  a  thump  in  the  chest. 

"Morbleu,  what  an  infernal  cheek!"  croaked 
the  man.  "So  you  have  cut  me  down?  You 
meddlesome  idiot,  by  what  right  did  you  poke 
your  nose  into  my  affairs,  hein?" 

Dismay  held  Tournicquot  dumb. 

"Hein?"  wheezed  the  man;  "what  concern  was 
it  of  yours,  if  you  please  ?  Never  in  my  life  be- 
fore have  I  met  with  such  a  piece  of  presump- 
tion!" 

"My  poor  friend,"  stammered  Tournicquot, 


126         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"you  do  not  know  what  you  say — you  are  not 
yourself!  By-and-by  you  will  be  grateful,  you 
will  fall  on  your  knees  and  bless  me." 

''By-and-by  I  shall  punch  you  in  the  eye,"  re- 
turned the  man,  "just  as  soon  as  I  am  feeling  bet- 
ter! What  have  you  done  to  my  collar,  too?  I 
declare  you  have  played  the  devil  with  me !"  His 
annoyance  rose.  "Who  are  you,  and  what  are 
you  doing  here,  anyhow?  You  are  a  trespasser — 
I  shall  give  you  in  charge." 

"Come,  come,"  said  Tournicquot,  conciliat- 
ingly,  "if  your  misfortunes  are  more  than  you  can 
bear,  I  regret  that  I  was  obliged  to  save  you ;  but, 
after  all,  there  is  no  need  to  make  such  a  griev- 
ance of  it — ^you  can  hang  yourself  another  day." 

"And  why  should  I  be  put  to  the  trouble 
twice?"  grumbled  the  other.  "Do  you  figure 
yourself  that  it  is  agreeable  to  hang?  I  passed 
a  very  bad  time,  I  can  assure  you.  If  you  had 
experienced  it,  you  would  not  talk  so  lightly 
about  'another  day.'  The  more  I  think  of  your 
impudent  interference,  the  more  it  vexes  me. 
And  how  dark  it  is!  Get  up  and  light  the  can^ 
dle^ — it  gives  me  the  hump  here." 

"I  have  no  candle,  I  have  no  candle,"  babbled 
Tournicquot;  "I  do  not  carry  candles  in  my 
pocket." 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  127 

"There  is  a  bit  on  the  mantelpiece/'  replied  the 
man  angrily ;  "I  saw  it  when  I  came  in.  Go  and 
feel  for  it — ^hunt  about!  Do  not  keep  me  lying 
here  in  the  dark — the  least  you  can  do  is  to  make 
me  as  comfortable  as  you  can." 

Tournicquot,  not  a  little  perturbed  by  the 
threat  of  assault,  groped  obediently;  but  the  room 
appeared  to  be  of  the  dimensions  of  a  park,  and 
he  arrived  at  the  candle  stump  only  after  a  pro- 
longed excursion.  The  flame  revealed  to  him  a 
man  of  about  his  own  age,  who  leant  against  the 
wall  regarding  him  with  indignant  eyes.  Re- 
vealed also  was  the  coil  of  rope  that  the  comedian 
had  brought  for  his  own  use ;  and  the  man  pointed 
to  it. 

"What  is  that?    It  was  not  here  just  now." 

"It  belongs  to  me,"  admitted  Tournicquot, 
nervously. 

"I  see  that  it  belongs  to  you.  Why  do  you 
visit  an  empty  house  with  a  coil  of  rope,  hein? 
I  should  like  to  understand  that.  .  .  .  Upon  my 
life,  you  were  here  on  the  same  business  as  my- 
self! Now  if  this  does  not  pass  all  forbearance! 
You  come  to  commit  suicide,  and  yet  you  have  the 
effrontery  to  put  a  stop  to  mine!" 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Tournicquot,  "I  obeyed  an 
impulse  of  pity !    It  is  true  that  I  came  to  destroy 


128         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

myself,  for  I  am  the  most  miserable  of  men ;  but 
I  was  so  much  affected  by  the  sight  of  your  suf- 
ferings that  temporarily  I  forgot  my  own." 

"That  is  a  lie,  for  I  was  not  suffering — I  was 
not  conscious  when  you  came  in.  However,  you 
have  some  pretty  moments  in  front  of  you,  so 
we  will  say  no  more!  When  you  feel  yourself 
drop,  it  will  be  diabolical,  I  promise  you;  the 
hair  stands  erect  on  the  head,  and  each  spot  of 
blood  in  the  veins  congeals  to  a  separate  icicle! 
It  is  true  that  the  drop  itself  is  swift,  but  the 
clutch  of  the  rope,  as  you  kick  in  the  air,  is  hardly 
less  atrocious.  Do  not  be  encouraged  by  the 
delusion  that  the  matter  is  instantaneous.  Time 
mocks  you,  and  a  second  holds  the  sensations  of 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  What  has  forced  you  to 
it?  We  need  not  stand  on  ceremony  with  each 
other,  hein?" 

"I  have  resolved  to  die  because  life  is  torture," 
said  Tournicquot,  on  whom  these  details  had 
made  an  unfavourable  impression. 

*'The  same  with  me!    A  woman,  of  course?" 

"Yes,"  sighed  Tournicquot,  "a  woman!" 

"Is  there  no  other  remedy?  Cannot  you  desert 
her?" 

"Desert  her?    I  pine  for  her  embrace!" 

"Hein?" 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  129 

"She  will  not  have  anything  to  do  with  me." 
''Comment?    Then  it  is  love  with  you?" 
''What  else?    An  eternal  passion!" 
''Oh,  mon  Dieu,  I  took  it  for  granted  you  were 
married!      But   this   is    droll.     Yow  would   die 
because  you  cannot  get  hold  of  a  woman,  and  I 
because  I  cannot  get  rid  of  one.    We  should  talk, 
we  two.    Can  you  give  me  a  cigarette?" 

"With  pleasure,  monsieur/'  responded  Tour- 
nicquot,  producing  a  packet.  "I,  also,  will  take 
one — my  last!" 

"If  I  expressed  myself  hastily  just  now,"  said 
his  companion,  refastening  his  collar,  "I  shall 
apologise — no  doubt  your  interference  was  well 
meant,  though  I  do  not  pretend  to  approve  it. 
Let  us  dismiss  the  incident;  you  have  behaved 
tactlessly,  and  I,  on  my  side,  have  perhaps  re- 
sented your  error  with  too  much  warmth.  Well, 
it  is  finished!  While  the  candle  burns,  let  us 
exchange  more  amicable  views.  Is  my  cravat 
straight?  It  astonishes  me  to  hear  that  love  can 
drive  a  man  to  such  despair.  I,  too,  have  loved, 
but  never  to  the  length  of  the  rope.  There  are 
plenty  of  womicn  in  Paris — if  one  has  no  heart, 
there  is  always  another.  I  am  far  from  propos- 
ing to  frustrate  your  project,  holding  as  I  do 
that  a  man's  suicide  is  an  intimate  matter  in  which 


130         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

'rescue'  is  a  name  given  by  busybodies  to  a  gross 
impertinence;  but  as  you  have  not  begun  the  job, 
I  will  confess  that  I  think  you  are  being  rash." 

"I  have  considered,"  replied  Tournicquot,  "I 
have  considered  attentively.  There  is  no  alterna- 
tive, I  assure  you." 

"I  would  make  another  attempt  to  persuade 
the  lady — I  swear  I  would  make  another  at- 
tempt !  You  are  not  a  bad-looking  fellow.  What 
is  her  objection  to  you?" 

"It  is  not  that  she  objects  to  me — on  the  con- 
trary. But  she  is  a  woman  of  high  principle,  and 
she  has  a  husband  who  is  devoted  to  her — she 
will  not  break  his  heart.    It  is  like  that." 

"Young?" 

"No  more  than  thirty." 

"And  beautiful?" 

"With  a  beauty  like  an  angel's!  She  has  a 
dimple  in  her  right  cheek  when  she  smiles  that 
drives  one  to  distraction." 

"Myself,  I  have  no  weakness  for  dimples;  but 
every  man  to  his  taste — ^there  is  no  arguing  about 
these  things.  What  a  combination — ^young, 
lovely,  virtuous!  And  I  make  you  a  bet  the  oaf 
of  a  husband  does  not  appreciate  her!  Is  it  not 
always  so?  Now  I — ^but  of  course  I  married 
foolishly,  I  married  an  artiste.  If  I  had  my  time 
again  I  would  choose  in  preference  any  semp- 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  131 

stress.  Th(^  artistes  are  for  applause,  for  bou- 
quets, for  little  dinners,  but  not  for  marriage." 

''I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  said  Tournicquot, 
with  some  hauteur.  ''Your  experience  may  have 
been  unfortunate,  but  the  theatre  contains  women 
quite  as  noble  as  any  other  sphere.  In  proof  of 
it,  the  lady  I  adore  is  an  artiste  herself!" 

"Really — is  it  so?  Would  it  be  indiscreet  to 
ask  her  name?" 

"There  are  things  that  one  does  not  tell." 

"But  as  a  matter  of  interest?  There  is  nothing 
derogatory  to  her  in  what  you  say — quite  the  re- 
verse." 

"True!  Well,  the  reason  for  reticence  is  re- 
moved.   She  is  known  as  'La  Belle  Lucrece.'  " 

""'Heinf  ejaculated  the  other,  jumping. 

"What  ails  you?" 

"She  is  my  wife!" 

"Your  wife  ?    Impossible !" 

"I  tell  you  I  am  married  to  her — she  is  'ma- 
dame  Beguinet.'  " 

"Mon  Dieu!"  faltered  Tournicquot,  aghast; 
"what  have  I  done!" 

"So?  •  .  .  You  are  her  lover?" 

"Never  has  she  encouraged  me^ — recall  what  I 
said!  There  are  no  grounds  for  jealousy — am  I 
not  about  to  die  because  she  spurns  me?  I  swear 
to  you " 


132         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"You  mistake  my  emotion — ^why  should  I  be 
jealous?  Not  at  all — I  am  only  amazed.  She 
thinks  I  am  devoted  to  her?  Ho,  ho!  Not  at 
all!  You  see  my  'devotion'  by  the  fact  that  I 
am  about  to  hang  myself  rather  than  hve  with 
her.  And  you,  you  cannot  bear  to  live  because 
you  adore  her!  Actually,  you  adore  her!  Is  it 
not  inexplicable?  Oh,  there  is  certainly  the  fin- 
ger of  Providence  in  this  meeting!  .  ,  .  Wait, 
we  must  discuss — ^we  should  come  to  each  other's 
aid !  •  •  .  .Give  me  another  cigarette." 

Some  seconds  passed  while  they  smoked  in 
silent  meditation. 

''Listen,"  resumed  monsieur  Beguinet;  "in 
order  to  clear  up  this  complication,  a  perfect  can- 
dour is  required  on  both  sides.  Alors,  as  to  your 
views,  is  it  that  you  aspire  to  marry  madame? 
I  do  not  wish  to  appear  exigent,  but  in  the  posi- 
tion that  I  occupy  you  will  realise  that  it  is  my 
duty  to  make  the  most  favourable  arrangements 
for  her  that  I  can.  Now  open  your  heart  to  me ; 
speak  frankly!" 

"It  is  difficult  for  me  to  express  myself  with- 
out restraint  to  you,  monsieur,"  said  Tournic- 
quot,  "because  circumstances  cause  me  to  regard 
you  as  a  grievance.  To  answer  you  with  all  the 
delicacy  possible,  I  will  say  that  if  I  had  cut  you 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  133 

down  five  minutes  later,  life  would  be  a  fairer 
thing  to  me." 

"Good,"  said  monsieur  Beguinet,  "we  make 
progress!  Your  income?  Does  it  suffice  to  sup- 
port her  in  the  style  to  which  she  is  accustomed? 
What  may  your  occupation  be?" 

"I  am  in  madame's  own  profession — I,  too,  am 
an  artiste." 

"So  much  the  more  congenial!  I  foresee  a 
joyous  union.  Come,  we  go  famously!  Your 
line  of  business — snakes,  ventriloquism,  perform- 
ing-rabbits, what  is  it?" 

"My  name  is  'Tournicquot,' "  responded  the 
comedian,  with  dignity.    "All  is  said!" 

"A-ah !  Is  it  so?  Now  I  understand  why  your 
voice  has  been  puzzling  me!  Monsieur  Tournic- 
quot,  I  am  enchanted  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
I  declare  the  matter  arranges  itself!  I  shall  tell 
you  what  we  will  do.  Hitherto  I  have  had  no 
choice  between  residing  with  madame  and  com- 
mitting suicide,  because  my  affairs  have  not  pros- 
pered, and — though  my  pride  has  revolted — ^her 
salary  has  been  essential  for  my  maintenance. 
Now  the  happy  medium  jumps  to  the  eyes;  for 
you,  for  me,  for  her  the  bright  sunshine  streams ! 
I  shall  efface  myself;  I  shall  go  to  a  distant  spot 
— say,  Monte  Carlo — and  you  shall  make  me  a 
snug  allowance.    Have  no  misgiving;  crown  her 


134         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

with  blossoms,  lead  her  to  the  altar,  and  rest  tran- 
quil— I  shall  never  reappear.  Do  not  figure 
yourself  that  I  shall  enter  like  the  villain  at  the 
Ambigu  and  menace  the  blissful  home.  Not  at 
all!  I  myself  may  even  re-marry,  who  knows? 
Indeed,  should  you  offer  me  an  allowance  ade- 
quate for  a  family  man,  I  will  undertake  to  re- 
marry— I  have  always  inclined  towards  specula- 
tion. That  will  shut  my  mouth,  hein?  I  could 
threaten  nothing,  even  if  I  had  a  base  nature,  for 
I,  also,  shall  have  committed  bigamy.  Suicide, 
bigamy,  I  would  commit  anything  rather  than 
live  with  Lucrece!" 

"But  madame's  consent  must  be  gained,"  de- 
murred Tournicquot ;  ''jon  Overlook  the  fact  that 
madame  must  consent.  It  is  a  fact  that  I  do 
not  understand  why  she  should  have  any  consid- 
eration for  you,  but  if  she  continues  to  harp  upon 
her  'duty,'  what  then?" 

"Do  you  not  tell  me  that  her  only  objection 
to  your  suit  has  been  her  fear  that  she  would 
break  my  heart?  What  an  hallucination !  I  shall 
approach  the  subject  with  tact,  with  the  utmost 
delicacy.  I  shall  intimate  to  her  that  to  ensure 
her  happiness  I  am  willing  to  sacrifice  myself. 
Should  she  hesitate,  I  shall  demand  to  sacrifice 
myself!  Rest  assured  that  if  she  regards  you 
with  the  favour  that  you  believe,  your  troubles 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  135 

are  at  an  end — ^the  barrier  removes  itself,  and 
you  join  hands.  .  .  .  The  candle  is  going  out! 
Shall  we  depart?" 

"I  perceive  no  reason  why  we  should  remain; 
in  truth,  we  might  have  got  out  of  it  sooner." 

"You  are  right!  a  cafe  will  be  more  cheerful. 
Suppose  we  take  a  bottle  of  wine  together;  how 
does  it  strike  you?  If  you  insist,  I  wiU  be  your 
guest ;  if  not " 

"Ah,  monsieur,  you  will  allow  me  the  pleas- 
ure," murmured  Tournicquot. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Beguinet,  "you  must  have 
your  way!  .  .  .  Your  rope  you  have  no  use  for, 
hein — ^we  shall  leave  it?" 

"But  certainly!  Why  should  I  burden  mv- 
self?" 

"The  occasion  has  passed,  true.  Good !  Come, 
my  comrade,  let  us  descend!" 

Who  shall  read  the  future?  Awhile  ago  they 
had  been  strangers,  neither  intending  to  quit  the 
house  alive;  now  the  pair  issued  from  it  jauntily, 
arm  in  arm.  Both  were  in  high  spirits,  and  by 
the  time  the  lamps  of  a  cafe  gave  them  welcome, 
and  the  wine  gurgled  gaily  into  the  glasses,  they 
pledged  each  other  with  a  sentiment  no  less  than 
fraternal. 

"How  I  rejoice  that  I  have  met  you!"  ex- 
claimed  Beguinet.      "To   your  marriage,   mon 


136        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

vieux;  to  your  joy!  Fill  up,  again  a  glass! — 
there  are  plenty  of  bottles  in  the  cellar.  Mon 
Dieu,  you  are  my  preserver — I  must  embrace 
you.  Never  till  now  have  I  felt  such  affection 
for  a  man.  This  evening  all  was  black  to  me;  I 
despaired,  my  heart  was  as  heavy  as  a  cannon- 
ball — and  suddenly  the  world  is  bright.  Roses 
bloom  before  my  feet,  and  the  little  larks  are 
singing  in  the  sky.  I  dance,  I  skip.  How  beau- 
tiful, how  sublime  is  friendship! — better  than 
riches,  than  youth,  than  the  love  of  woman ;  riches 
melt,  youth  flies,  woman  snores.    But  friendship 

is Again  a  glass !    It  goes  well,  this  wine. 

Let  us  have  a  lobster !  I  swear  I  have  an  appe- 
tite; they  make  one  peckish,  these  suicides, 
n'est-ce  pas  ?  I  shall  not  be  formal — if  you  con- 
sider it  your  treat,  you  shall  pay.  A  lobster  and 
another  bottle !    At  your  ex:  ense,  or  mine?" 

"Ah,  the  bill  all  in  one!"  declared  Toumicquot. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Beguinet,  "y^u  must  have 
your  way!  What  a  happy  man  I  am!  Already 
I  feel  twenty  years  younger.  You  would  not  be- 
lieve what  I  have  suffered.  My  agonies  would 
fill  a  book.  Really.  By  nature  I  am  domesti- 
cated; but  my  home  is  impossible — I  shudder 
when  I  enter  it.  It  is  only  in  a  restaurant  that  I 
see  a  clean  table-cloth.  Absolutely.  I  pig.  All 
Lucrece  thinks  about  is  frivolity." 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  137 

"No,  no,"  protested  Tournicquot;  "to  that  I 
cannot  agree." 

"What  do  you  know?  You  'cannot  agree'! 
You  have  seen  her  when  she  is  laced  in  her  stage 
costume,  when  she  prinks  and  prattles,  with  the 
paint,  and  the  powder,  and  her  best  corset  on. 
It  is  I  who  am  'behind  the  scenes,'  mon  ami,  not 
you.  I  see  her  dirty  peignoir  and  her  curl  rags. 
At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Every  day. 
You  'cannot  agree' !" 

"Curl  rags?"  faltered  Tournicquot. 

"But  certainly!  I  tell  you  I  am  of  a  gentle  dis- 
position, I  am  most  tolerant  of  women's  failings ; 
it  says  much  that  I  would  have  hanged  myself 
rather  than  remain  with  a  woman.  Her  untidi- 
ness is  not  all;  her  toilette  at  home  revolts  my 
sensibilities,  but — ^well,  one  cannot  have  every- 
thing, and  her  salar  *>;  substantial;  I  have  closed 
my  eyes  to  the  curl  rags.  However,  snakes  are 
more  serious." 

"Snakes?"  ejaculated  Tournicquot. 

"Xaturally !  The  beasts  must  live,  do  they  not 
support  us?  But  'Everything  in  its  place'  is  my 
own  motto ;  the  motto  of  my  wife — 'AH  over  the 
place.'  Her  serpents  have  shortened  my  life, 
word  of  honour! — ^they  wander  where  they  will. 
I  never  lay  my  head  beside  those  curl  rags  of  hers 
without  anticipating  a  cobra-decapello  under  the 


138         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

bolster.  It  is  not  everybody's  money.  Lucrece 
has  no  objection  to  them;  well,  it  is  very  courage- 
ous— very  fortunate,  since  snakes  are  her  profes- 
sion— but  I,  I  was  not  brought  up  to  snakes;  I 
am  not  at  my  ease  in  a  Zoological  Gardens." 

"It  is  natural." 

"Is  it  not?  I  desire  to  explain  myself  to  you, 
you  understand;  are  we  not  as  brothers?  Oh,  I 
realise  well  that  when  one  loves  a  woman  one 
always  thinks  that  the  faults  are  the  husband's; 
believe  me  I  have  had  much  to  justify  my  atti- 
tude.    Snakes,  dirt,  furies,  what  a  menage!" 

"Furies?"  gasped  Tournicquot. 

"I  am  an  honest  man,"  affirmed  Beguinet, 
draining  another  bumper;  "I  shall  not  say  to  you 
'I  have  no  blemish,  I  am  perfect.'  Not  at  all. 
Without  doubt,  I  have  occasionally  expressed 
mvself  to  Lucrece  with  more  candour  than  cour- 
tesy.  Such  things  happen.  But" — he  refilled  his 
glass,  and  sighed  pathetically — "but  to  every  citi- 
zen, whatever  his  position — ^whether  his  affairs 
may  have  prospered  or  not — ^his  wife  owes  re- 
spect. Hein?  She  should  not  throw  the  ragout 
at  him.  She  should  not  menace  him  with  snakes.'* 
He  wept.  "My  friend,  you  will  admit  that  it  is 
not  gentil  to  coerce  a  husband  with  deadly  rep- 
tiles?" 

Tournicquot  had  turned  very  pale.    He  signed 


THE  SUICIDES  IN  THE  RUE  SOMBRE  139 

to  the  waiter  for  the  bill,  and  when  it  was  dis- 
charged, sat  regarding  his  companion  with  round 
eyes.  At  last,  clearing  his  throat,  he  said  nerv- 
ously : 

"After  all,  do  you  know — ^now  one  comes  to 
think  it  over — I  am  not  sure,  upon  my  honour, 
that  our  arrangement  is  feasible?" 

"What?"  exclaimed  Beguinet,  with  a  violent 
start,  "Not  feasible?  How  is  that,  pray?  Be- 
cause I  have  opened  my  heart  to  you,  do  you 
back  out?  Oh,  what  treachery!  Never  will  I 
believe  you  could  be  capable  of  it!" 

"However,  it  is  a  fact.  On  consideration,  I 
shall  not  rob  you  of  her." 

"Base  fellow !  You  take  advantage  of  my  con- 
fidence.   A  contract  is  a  contract !" 

"Nb,"  stammered  Tournicquot,  "I  shall  be  a 
man  and  live  my  love  down.  Monsieur,  I  have 
the  honour  to  wish  you  'Good-night.'  " 

"He,  stop!"  cried  Beguinet,  infuriated. 
"What  then  is  to  become  of  me?  Insolent  pol- 
troon— ^you  have  even  destroyed  my  rope!" 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE 

"Once,"  remarked  Trieotrin,  pitching  his  pen 
in  the  air,  "there  were  four  suitors  for  the  Most 
Beautiful  of  her  Sex.  The  first  young  man  was 
a  musician,  and  he  shut  himself  in  his  garret  to 
compose  a  divine  melody,  to  be  dedicated  to  her. 
The  second  lover  was  a  chemist,  who  experi- 
mented day  and  night  to  discover  a  unique  per- 
fume that  she  alone  might  use.  The  third,  who 
was  a  floriculturist,  aspired  constantly  among  his 
bulbs  to  create  a  silver  rose,  that  should  immor- 
talise the  lady's  name." 

"And  the  fourth,"  inquired  Pitou,  "what  did 
the  fourth  suitor  do?" 

"The  fourth  suitor  waited  for  her  every  after- 
noon in  the  sunshine,  while  the  others  were  at 
work,  and  married  her  with  great  eclat.  The 
moral  of  which  is  that,  instead  of  cracking  my 
head  to  make  a  sonnet  to  Claudine,  I  shall  be  wise 
to  put  on  my  hat  and  go  to  meet  her." 

"I  rejoice  that  the  denoument  is  arrived  at," 
Pitou  returned,  "but  it  would  be  even  more  ab- 
sorbing if  I  had  previously  heard  of  Claudine." 

140 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     141 

''Miserable  dullard!"  cried  the  poet;  "do  you 
tell  me  that  you  have  not  previously  heard  of 
Claudine?  She  is  the  only  woman  I  have  ever 
loved." 

"A — ah,"  rejoined  Pitou;  "certainly,  I  have 
heard  of  her  a  thousand  times — only  she  has  never 
been  called  'Claudine'  before." 

"Let  us  keep  to  the  point,"  said  Tricotrin. 
"Claudine  represents  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime. 
I  think  seriously  of  writing  a  tragedy  for  her  to 
appear  in." 

"I  shall  undertake  to  weep  copiously  at  it  if 
you  present  me  with  a  pass,"  affirmed  Pitou. 
"She  is  an  actress,  then,  this  Claudine?  At  what 
theatre  is  she  blazing — ^the  Montmartre?" 

"How  often  I  find  occasion  to  lament  that  your 
imagination  is  no  larger  than  the  quartierl 
Claudine  is  not  of  Montmartre  at  all,  at  all.  My 
poor  friend,  have  you  never  heard  that  there  are 
theatres  on  the  Grand  Boulevard?" 

"Ah,  so  you  betake  yourself  to  haunts  of  fash- 
ion? Now  I  begin  to  understand  why  you  have 
become  so  prodigal  with  the  blacking;  for  some 
time  I  have  had  the  intention  of  reproaching  you 
with  your  shoes — our  finances  are  not  equal  to 
such  lustre." 

"Ah,  when  one  truly  loves,  money  is  no  ob- 
ject !"  said  Tricotrin.    "However,  if  it  is  time  mis- 


142        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

speni;  fo  write  a  sonnet  to  her,  it  is  even  more 
unprofitable  to  pass  the  evening  justifying  one's 
shoes."  And,  picking  up  his  hat,  the  poet  ran 
down  the  stairs,  and  made  his  way  as  fast  as  his 
legs  would  carry  him  to  the  Comedie  Modeme. 

He  arrived  at  the  stage-door  with  no  more 
than  three  minutes  to  spare,  and  disposing  him- 
self in  a  graceful  attitude,  waited  for  mademoi- 
selle Claudine  Hilairet  to  come  out.  It  might 
have  been  observed  that  his  confidence  deserted 
him  while  he  waited,  for  although  it  was  perfectly 
true  that  he  adored  her,  he  had  omitted  to  add 
that  the  passion  was  not  mutual.  He  was  con- 
scious that  the  lady  might  resent  his  presence  on 
the  door-step;  and,  in  fact,  when  she  appeared, 
she  said  nothing  more  tender  than — 

"Mon  Dieu,  again  you!    What  do  you  want?" 

"How  can  you  ask?"  sighed  the  poet.  "I  came 
to  walk  home  with  you  lest  an  electric  tram  should 
knock  you  down  at  one  of  the  crossings.  What 
a  magnificent  performance  you  have  given  this 
evening !     Superb !" 

"Were  you  in  the  theatre?" 

"In  spirit.  My  spirit,  which  no  official  can 
exclude,  is  present  every  night,  though  sordid 
considerations  force  me  to  remain  corporally  in 
my  attic.   Transported  by  admiration,  I  even 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     143 

burst  into  frantic  applause  there.  How  perfect 
is  the  sympathy  between  our  souls!" 

"Listen,  my  little  one,"  she  said.  "I  am  sorry 
for  your  relatives,  if  you  have  any — ^your  condi- 
tion must  be  a  great  grief  to  them.  But,  all  the 
same,  I  cannot  have  you  dangling  after  me  and 
talking  this  bosh.  What  do  you  suppose  can 
come  of  it?" 

"Fame  shall  come  of  it,"  averred  the  poet, 
"fame  for  us  both!  Do  not  figure  yourself  that 
I  am  a  dreamer.  Not  at  all!  I  am  practical, 
a  man  of  affairs.  Are  you  content  with  your 
position  in  the  Comedie  Moderne?  No,  you  are 
not.  You  occupy  a  subordinate  position;  you 
play  the  role  of  a  waiting-maid,  which  is  quite 
unworthy  of  your  genius,  and  understudy  the 
ingenue,  who  is  a  portly  matron  in  robust  health. 
The  opportunity  to  distinguish  yourself  appears 
to  you  as  remote  as  Mars.  Do  I  romance,  or  is 
it  true?" 

"It  is  true,"  she  said.    "Well?" 

"Well,  I  propose  to  alter  all  this — I !  I  have 
the  intention  of  writing  a  great  tragedy,  and 
when  it  is  accepted,  I  shall  stipulate  that  you, 
and  you  alone,  shall  thrill  Paris  as  my  heroine. 
When  the  work  of  my  brain  has  raised  you  to 
the  pinnacle  for  which  you  were  born,  when  the 


144         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

theatre  echoes  with  our  names,  I  shall  fall  at  your 
feet,  and  you  will  murmur,  'Gustave — I  love 
thee!'" 

"Why  does  not  your  mother  do  something?" 
she  asked.  "Is  there  nobody  to  place  you  where 
you  might  be  cured?  A  tragedy?  Imbecile,  I 
am  comedienne  to  the  finger-tips !  What  should 
I  do  with  your  tragedy,  even  if  it  were  at  the 
Fran9ais  itself?" 

"You  are  right,"  said  Tricotrin;  "I  shall  turn 
out  a  brilliant  comedy  instead.  And  when  the 
work  of  my  brain  has  raised  you  to  the  pinnacle 
for  which  you  were  born,  when  the  theatre  echoes 
with  our  names " 

She  interrupted  him  by  a  peal  of  laughter 
which  disconcerted  him  hardly  less  than  her  an- 
noyance. 

"It  is  impossible  to  be  angry  with  you  long," 
she  declared,  "you  are  too  comic.  Also,  as  a 
friend,  I  do  not  object  to  you  violently.  Come,  I 
advise  you  to  be  content  with  what  you  can  have, 
instead  of  crying  for  the  moon!" 

"Well,  I  am  not  unwilling  to  make  shift  with 
it  in  the  meantime,"  returned  Tricotrin;  "but 
friendship  is  a  poor  substitute  for  the  heavens — 
and  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see.  Tell  me  now, 
they  mean  to  revive  La  Curieuse  at  the  Comedie, 
I  hear — what  part  in  it  have  you  been  assigned?" 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     145 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  mademoiselle  Hilairet,  "is  it 
not  always  the  same  thing?  I  dust  the  same 
decayed  furniture  with  the  same  feather  brush, 
and  I  say  'Yes,'  and  'Nb,'  and  'Here  is  a  letter, 
madame.'     That  is  all." 

''I  swear  it  is  infamous!"  cried  the  poet.  "It 
amazes  me  that  they  fail  to  perceive  that  your 
gifts  are  buried.  One  would  suppose  that  man- 
agers would  knoAV  better  than  to  condemn  a  great 
artiste  to  perform  such  ignominious  roles.  The 
critics  also !  Why  do  not  the  critics  call  attention 
to  an  outrage  which  continues  year  by  year?  It 
appears  to  me  that  I  shall  have  to  use  my  influ- 
ence with  the  Press."  And  so  serious  was  the 
tone  in  which  he  made  this  boast,  that  the  fair 
Claudine  began  to  wonder  if  she  had  after  all 
underrated  the  position  of  her  out-at-elbows 
gallant. 

"Your  influence?"  she  questioned,  with  an 
eager  smile.  "Have  you  influence  with  the 
critics,  then?" 

"We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see,"  repeated 
Tricotrin,  significantly.  "I  am  not  unknown  in 
Paris,  and  I  have  your  cause  at  heart — I  may 
make  a  star  of  you  yet.  But  while  we  are  on  the 
subject  of  astronomy,  one  question!  When  my 
services  have  transformed  you  to  a  star,  shall  I 
still  be  compelled  to  cry  for  the  moon?" 


146         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Mademoiselle  Hilairet's  tones  quivered  with 
emotion  — as  she  murmured  how  grateful  to  him 
she  would  be,  and  it  was  understood,  when  he 
took  leave  of  her,  that  if  he  indeed  accomplished 
his  design,  his  suit  would  be  no  longer  hopeless. 

The  poet  pressed  her  hand  ardently,  and 
turned  homeward  in  high  feather ;  and  it  was  not 
until  he  had  trudged  a  mile  or  so  that  the  rapture 
in  his  soul  began  to  subside  under  the  remem- 
brance that  he  had  been  talking  through  his  hat. 

"In  fact,"  he  admitted  to  Pitou  when  the  gar- 
ret was  reached,  "my  imagination  took  wings  unto 
itself ;  I  am  committed  to  a  task  beside  which  the 
labours  of  Hercules  were  child's  play.  The  ques- 
tion now  arises  how  this  thing,  of  which  I  spoke  so 
confidently,*  is  to  be  effected.  What  do  you 
suggest?" 

"I  suggest  that  you  allow  me  to  sleep,"  replied 
Pitou,  "for  I  shall  feel  less  hungry  then." 

"Your  suggestion  will  not  advance  us,"  de- 
murred Tricotrin.  "We  shall,  on  the  contrary, 
examine  the  situation  in  all  its  bearings.  Listen! 
Claudine  is  to  enact  the  waiting-maid  in  La 
Curieuse,  which  will  be  revived  at  the  Comedie 
Moderne  in  a  fortnight's  time;  she  will  dust  the 
Empire  furniture,  and  say  'Yes'  and  'No'  with 
all  the  intellect  and  animation  for  which  those 
monosyllables  provide  an  opening.     Have  you 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     147 

grasped  the  synopsis  so  far?  Good!  On  the 
strength  of  this  performance,  it  has  to  be  stated 
by  the  foremost  dramatic  critic  in  Paris  that  she 
is  an  actress  of  genius.  Now,  how  is  it  to  be  done  ? 
How  shall  we  induce  Labaregue  to  write  of  her 
with  an  outburst  of  enthusiasm  in  JLa  Voioo?'^ 

"Labaregue?"  faltered  Pitou.  ''I  declare  the 
audacity  of  your  notion  wakes  me  up!" 

"Capital,"  said  Tricotrin,  "we  are  making 
progress  already !  Yes,  we  must  have  Labaregue 
— it  has  never  been  my  custom  to  do  things  by 
halves.  Dramatically,  of  course,  I  should  hold  a 
compromising  paper  of  Labaregue's.  I  should 
say,  'Monsieur,  the  price  of  this  document  is  an 
act  of  justice  to  mademoiselle  Claudine  Hilairet. 
It  is  agreed?  Good!  Sit  down — ^you  will  write 
from  my  dictation!'  " 

"However "  said  Pitou. 

"However — I  anticipate  your  objection — I  do 
not  hold  such  a  paper.  Therefore,  that  scene  is 
cut.  Well,  let  us  find  another!  Where  is  your 
fertility  of  resource?  Mon  Dieu!  why  should  I 
speak  to  him  at  all?" 

"I  do  not  figure  myself  that  you  will  speak  to 
him,  you  will  never  get  the  chance." 

"Precisely  my  own  suspicion.  What  follows? 
Instead  of  wasting  my  time  seeking  an  interview 
which  would  not  be  granted " 


148         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"And  which  would  lead  to  nothing  even  if  it 
were  granted !'' 

"And  which  would  lead  to  nothing  even  if  it 
were  granted,  as  you  point  out ;  instead  of  doing 
this,  it  is  evident  that  I  must  write  Labaregue's 
criticism  myself!" 

"Hein?"  ejaculated  Pitou,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"I  confess  that  I  do  not  perceive  yet  how  it  is 
to  be  managed,  but  obviously  it  is  the  only 
course.  I  must  write  what  is  to  be  said,  and  La 
Voix  must  believe  that  it  has  been  written  by 
Labaregue.  Come,  we  are  getting  on  famously 
— we  have  now  decided  what  we  are  to  avoid!" 

"By  D'Artagnan,  Athos,  Porthos,  and  Ara- 
mis,"  cried  Pitou,  "this  will  be  the  doughtiest 
adventure  in  which  we  have  engaged!" 

"You  are  right,  it  is  an  adventure  worthy  of 
our  steel  .  .  .  pens!  We  shall  enlighten  the 
public,  crown  an  artiste,  and  win  her  heart  by 
way  of  reward — ^that  is  to  say,  I  shall  win  her 
heart  by  way  of  reward.  What  your  own  share 
of  the  booty  will  be  I  do  not  recognize,  but  I 
promise  you,  at  least,  a  generous  half  of  the 
dangers." 

"My  comrade,"  murmured  Pitou;  "ever  loyal! 
But  do  you  not  think  that  La  Voix  will  smell  a 
rat?    What  about  the  handwriting?" 

"It  is  a  weak  point  which  had  already  pre- 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     149 

sented  itself  to  me.  Could  I  have  constructed  the 
situation  to  my  liking,  Labaregue  would  have  the 
custom  to  type-write  his  notices ;  however,  as  he 
is  so  inconsiderate  as  to  knock  them  off  in  the 
Cafe  de  I'Europe,  he  has  not  that  custom,  and 
we  must  adapt  ourselves  to  the  circumstances 
that  exist.  The  probability  is  that  a  criticism  de- 
livered by  the  accredited  messenger,  and  signed 
with  the  familiar  'J.  L.'  will  be  passed  without 
question;  the  difference  in  the  handwriting  may 
be  attributed  to  an  amanuensis.  When  the  great 
man  writes  his  next  notice,  I  shall  make  it  my 
business  to  be  taking  a  bock  in  the  Cafe  de  I'Eu- 
rope, in  order  that  I  may  observe  closely  what 
happens.  There  is  to  be  a  repetition  generale  at 
the  Vaudeville  on  Monday  night — on  Monday 
night,  therefore,  I  hope  to  advise  you  of  our  plan 
of  campaign.  Now  do  not  speak  to  me  any 
more — I  am  about  to  compose  a  eulogy  on  Clau- 
dine,  for  which  Labaregue  will,  in  due  course, 
receive  the  credit." 

The  poet  fell  asleep  at  last,  murmuring  dithy- 
rambic  phrases;  and  if  you  suppose  that  in  the 
soberness  of  daylight  he  renounced  his  hare- 
brained project,  it  is  certain  that  you  have  never 
lived  with  Tricotrin  in  Montmartre. 

No,  indeed,  he  did  not  renounce  it.  On  Mon- 
day night — or  rather  in  the  small  hours  of  Tues- 


150         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

day  morning — ^he  awoke  Pitou  with  enthusiasm. 

''Mon  vieux/'  he  exclaimed,  *'the  evening  has 
been  well  spent!  I  have  observed,  and  I  have 
reflected.  When  he  quitted  the  Vaudeville, 
Labaregue  entered  the  Cafe  de  I'Europe,  seated 
himself  at  his  favourite  table,  and  wrote  without 
cessation  for  half  an  hour.  When  his  critique 
was  finished,  he  placed  it  in  an  envelope,  and 
commanded  his  supper.  All  this  time  I,  sipping 
a  bock  leisurely,  accorded  to  his  actions  a  scrutiny 
worthy  of  the  secret  police.  Presently  a  lad  from 
the  office  of  La  Voix  appeared;  he  approached 
Labaregue,  received  the  envelope,  and  departed. 
At  this  point,  my  bock  was  finished;  I  paid  for 
it  and  sauntered  out,  keeping  the  boy  well  in  view. 
His  route  to  the  office  lay  through  a  dozen  streets 
which  were  all  deserted  at  so  late  an  hour;  but 
I  remarked  one  that  was  even  more  forbidding 
than  the  rest — a  mere  alley  that  seemed  positively 
to  have  been  designed  for  our  purpose.  Our 
course  is  clear — ^we  shall  attack  him  in  the  rue  des 
Cendres.'' 

"Really?"  inquired  Pitou,  somewhat  startled. 

"But  really!  We  will  not  shed  his  blood;  we 
will  make  him  turn  out  his  pockets,  and  then, 
disgusted  by  the  smallness  of  the  swag,  toss  it 
back  to  him  with  a  flip  on  the  ear.  Needless  to 
say  that  when  he  escapes,  he  will  be  the  bearer  of 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     151 

m^y  criticism,  not  of  Labaregue's.  He  will  have 
teen  too  frightened  to  remark  the  exchange." 

''It  is  not  bad,  your  plan." 

"It  is  an  inspiration.  But  to  render  it  abso- 
lutely safe,  we  must  have  an  accomplice." 

"Why,  is  he  so  powerful,  your  boy?" 

"No,  mon  ami,  the  boy  is  not  so  powerful,  but 
the  alley  has  two  ends — I  do  not  desire  to  be 
arrested  while  I  am  giving  a  lifelike  representa- 
tion of  an  apache.  I  think  we  will  admit  La- 
jeunie  to  our  scheme — as  a  novelist  he  should 
appreciate  the  situation.  If  Lajeunie  keeps 
guard  at  one  end  of  the  alley,  while  you  stand 
at  the  other,  I  can  do  the  business  without  risk 
of  being  interrupted  and  removed  to  gaol." 

"It  is  true.  As  a  danger  signal,  I  shall  whistle 
the  first  bars  of  my  Fugue." 

"Good!  And  we  will  arrange  a  signal  with 
Lajeunie  also.  Mon  Dieu!  will  not  Claudine  be 
amazed  next  day?  I  shall  not  breathe  a  word  to 
her  in  the  meantime ;  I  shall  let  her  open  La  Voix 
without  expectation;  and  then — ah,  what  joy  will 
be  hers!  'The  success  of  the  evening  was  made 
by  the  actress  who  took  the  role  of  the  maid- 
servant, and  who  had  perhaps  six  words  to  utter. 
But  with  what  vivacity,  with  what  esprit  were 
they  delivered !  Every  gesture,  every  sparkle  of 
the  eyes,  betokened  the  comedienne.    For  myself, 


152         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

I  ceased  to  regard  the  fatuous  ingenue,  I  forgot 
the  presence  of  the  famous  leading  lady;  I 
watched  absorbed  the  facial  play  of  this  maid- 
servant, whose  brains  and  beauty,  I  predict,  will 
speedily  bring  Paris  to  her  feet' !" 

"Is  that  what  you  mean  to  write?'* 

"I  shall  improve  upon  it.  I  am  constantly 
improving — ^that  is  why  the  notice  is  still  un- 
finished. It  hampers  me  that  I  must  compose  in 
the  strain  of  Labaregue  himself,  instead  of  allow- 
ing my  eloquence  to  soar.  By  the  way,  we  had 
better  speak  to  Lajeunie  on  the  subject  soon,  lest 
he  should  pretend  that  he  has  another  engage- 
ment for  that  night;  he  is  a  good  boy,  Lajeunie, 
but  he  always  pretends  that  he  has  engagements 
in  fashionable  circles." 

The  pair  went  to  him  the  following  day,  and 
when  they  had  climbed  to  his  garret,  found  the 
young  literary  man  in  bed. 

"It  shocks  me,"  said  Pitou,  "to  perceive  that 
you  rise  so  late,  Lajeunie;  why  are  you  not 
dashing  off  chapters  of  a  romance?" 

"Mon  Dieu!"  replied  Lajeunie,  "I  was  making 
studies  among  the  beau  monde  until  a  late  hour 
last  night  at  a  reception;  and,  to  complete  my 
fatigue,  it  was  impossible  to  get  a  cab  when  I 
left." 

"Naturally;  it  happens  to  everybody  when  he 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     153 

lacks  a  cab-fare,"  said  Tricotrin.  "Nbw  tell  me, 
have  you  any  invitation  from  a  duchess  for  next 
Thursday  evening?" 

"Thursday,  Thursday?"  repeated  Lajeunie 
thoughtfully.  "No,  I  believe  that  I  am  free  for 
Thursday." 

"Now,  that  is  fortunate!"  exclaimed  Tricotrin. 
"Well,  we  want  you  to  join  us  on  that  evening, 
my  friend." 

"Indeed,  we  should  be  most  disappointed  if 
you  could  not,"  put  in  Pitou. 

"Certainly;  I  shall  have  much  pleasure,"  said 
Lajeunie.    "Is  it  a  supper?" 

"No,"  said  Tricotrin,  "it  is  a  robbery.  I  shall 
explain.  Doubtless  you  know  the  name  of 
'mademoiselle  Claudine  Hilairet'?" 

"I  have  never  heard  it  in  my  life.  Is  she  in 
Society?" 

"Society?  She  is  in  the  Comedie  Moderne. 
She  is  a  great  actress,  but — ^like  us  all — unrecog- 
nised." 

"My  heart  bleeds  for  her.    Another  comrade !" 

"I  was  sure  I  could  depend  upon  your  sym- 
pathy. Well,  on  Thursday  night  they  will  revive 
La  Qurieuse  at  the  Comedie,  and  I  myself  pro- 
pose to  write  Labaregue's  critique  of  the  per- 
formance.   Do  you  tumble?" 

"It  is  a  gallant  action.    Yes,  I  grasp  the 


154         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

climax,  but  at  present  I  do  not  perceive  how  the 
plot  is  to  be  constructed." 

"Labaregue's  notices  are  dispatched  by  mes- 
senger/' began  Pitou. 

'Trom  the  Cafe  de  I'Europe/'  added  Tricotrin. 

"So  much  I  know,"  said  Lajeunie. 

"I  shall  attack  the  messenger,  and  make  a 
slight  exchange  of  manuscripts,"  Tricotrin  went 
on. 

"A  blunder!"  proclaimed  Lajeunie;  "you  show 
a  lack  of  invention.  Now  be  guided  by  me,  be- 
cause I  am  a  novelist  and  I  understand  these 
things.  '  The  messenger  is  an  escaped  convict, 
and  you  say  to  him,  'I  know  your  secret.  You 
do  my  bidding,  or  you  go  back  to  the  galleys; 
I  shall  give  you  three  minutes  to  decide!'  You 
stand  before  him,  stern,  dominant,  inexorable — 
your  watch  in  your  hand." 

"It  is  at  the  pawn-shop." 

"Well,  well,  of  course  it  is;  since  when  have 
you  joined  the  realists?  Somebody  else's  watch 
— or  a  clock.  Are  there  no  clocks  in  Paris  ?  You 
say,  'I  shall  give  you  until  the  clock  strikes  the 
hour.'  That  is  even  more  literary — you  obtain 
the  solemn  note  of  the  clock  to  mark  the  crisis." 

"But  there  is  no  convict,"  demurred  Tricotrin; 
"there  are  clocks,  but  there  is  no  convict/* 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     155 

"No  convict?  The  messenger  is  not  a  con- 
vict?" 

"Not  at  all — ^he  is  an  apple-cheeked  boy." 

"Oh,  it  is  a  rotten  plot,"  said  Lajeunie;  "I 
shall  not  collaborate  in  it !" 

"Consider!"  cried  Tricotrin;  "do  not  throw 
away  the  chance  of  a  lifetime,  think  what  I  offer 
you — you  shall  hang  about  the  end  of  a  dark 
alley,  and  whistle  if  anybody  comes.  How  lit- 
erary again  is  that !  You  may  develop  it  into  a 
novel  that  will  make  you  celebrated.  Pitou  will 
be  at  the  other  end.  I  and  the  apple-cheeked  boy 
who  is  to  die — that  is  to  say,  to  be  duped — ^will 
occupy  the  centre  of  the  stage — I  mean  the 
middle  of  the  alley.  And  on  the  morrow,  when 
all  Paris  rings  with  the  fame  of  Claudine 
Hilairet,  I,  who  adore  her,  shall  have  won  her 
heart!" 

"Humph,"  said  Lajeunie.  "Well,  since  the 
synopsis  has  a  happy  ending,  I  consent.  But  I 
make  one  condition — I  must  wear  a  crepe  mask. 
Without  a  crepe  mask  I  perceive  no  thrill  in  my 
role." 

"Madness!"  objected  Pitou.  "Now  listen  to, 
me — ^I  am  serious-minded,  and  do  not  commit 
follies,  like  you  fellows.  Crepe  masks  are  not 
being  worn  this  season.    Believe  me,  if  you  loiter 


156         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

at  a  street  corner  with  a  crepe  mask  on,  some 
passer-by  will  regard  you,  he  may  even  wonder 
what  you  are  doing  there.  It  might  ruin  the 
whole  job." 

''Pitou  is  right,"  announced  Tricotrin,  after 
profound  consideration. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Lajeunie,  ''you  must  wear 
a  crepe  mask!  Put  it  on  when  you  attack  the 
boy.  I  have  always  had  a  passion  for  crepe 
masks,  and  this  is  the  first  opportunity  that  I 
find  to  gratify  it.  I  insist  that  somebody  wears 
a  crepe  mask,  or  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  con- 
spiracy." 

"Agreed!  In  the  alley  it  will  do  no  harm;  in- 
deed it  will  prevent  the  boy  identifying  me. 
Good,  on  Thursday  night  then!  In  the  mean- 
time we  shall  rehearse  the  crime  assiduously,  and 
you  and  Pitou  can  practise  your  whistles." 

With  what  diligence  did  the  poet  write  each 
day  now!  How  lovingly  he  selected  his  super- 
latives! Never  in  the  history  of  the  Press  had 
such  ardent  care  been  lavished  on  a  criticism — 
truly  it  was  not  until  Thursday  afternoon  that 
he  was  satisfied  that  he  could  do  no  more.  He 
put  the  pages  in  his  pocket,  and,  too  impatient 
even  to  be  hungry,  roamed  about  the  quartier, 
reciting  to  himself  the  most  hyperbolic  of  his 
periods. 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     157 

And  dusk  gathered  over  Paris,  and  the  lights 
sprang  out,  and  the  tense  hours  crept  away. 

It  was  precisely  half -past  eleven  when  the  three 
conspirators  arrived  at  the  doors  of  the  Comedie 
Moderne,  and  lingered  near  by  until  the  audience 
poured  forth.  Labaregue  was  among  the  first 
to  appear.  He  paused  on  the  steps  to  take  a 
cigarette,  and  stepped  briskly  into  the  noise  and 
glitter  of  the  Boulevard.  The  young  men  fol- 
lowed, exchanging  feverish  glances.  Soon  the 
glow  of  the  Cafe  de  I'Europe  was  visible.  The 
critic  entered,  made  a  sign  to  a  waiter,  and  seated 
himself  gravely  at  a  table. 

Many  persons  gazed  at  him  with  interest.  To 
those  who  did  not  know,  habitues  whispered, 
"There  is  Labaregue — see,  he  comes  to  write  his 
criticism  on  the  revival  of  JLa  Curieuser  Labare- 
gue affected  unconsciousness  of  all  this,  but 
secretly  he  lapped  it  up.  Occasionally  he  passed 
his  hand  across  his  brow  with  a  gesture  pro- 
foundly intellectual. 

Few  there  remarked  that  at  brief  intervals 
three  shabby  young  men  strolled  in,  who  betrayed 
no  knowledge  of  one  another,  and  merely  called 
for  bocks.  None  suspected  that  these  humble 
customers  plotted  to  consign  the  celebrity's  criti- 
cism to  the  flames. 

Without  a  sign  of  recognition,  taciturn  and 


158         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

impassive,  the  three  young  men  waited,  their  eyes 
bent  upon  the  critic's  movements. 

By-and-by  Labaregue  thrust  his  "copy"  into 
an  envelope  that  was  provided.  Some  moments 
afterwards  one  of  the  young  men  asked  another 
waiter  for  the  materials  to  write  a  letter.  The 
paper  he  crumpled  in  his  pocket;  in  the  envelope 
he  placed  the  forged  critique. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed.  Then  a  youth  of 
about  sixteen  hurried  in  and  made  his  way  to 
Labaregue's  table.  At  this  instant  Lajeunie  rose 
and  left.  As  the  youth  received  the  "copy," 
Tricotrin  also  sauntered  out.  When  the  youth 
again  reached  the  door,  it  was  just  swinging  be- 
hind Pitou. 

The  conspirators  were  now  in  the  right  order 
— Lajeunie  pressing  forward,  Tricotrin  keeping 
pace  with  the  boy,  Pitou  a  few  yards  in  the  rear. 

The  boy  proceeded  swiftly.  It  was  late,  and 
even  the  Boulevard  showed  few  pedestrians  now; 
in  the  side  streets  the  quietude  was  unbroken. 
Tricotrin  whipped  on  his  mask  at  the  opening  of 
the  passage.  When  the  messenger  was  half-way 
through  it,  the  attack  was  made  suddenly,  with 
determination. 

"Fat  one,"  exclaimed  the  poet,  "I  starve — 
give  me  five  francs !" 


THE  CONSPIRACY  FOR  CLAUDINE     159 

^''Comment?''  stammered  the  youth,  jumping; 
"I  haven't  five  francs,  I!" 

"Give  me  all  you  have — empty  your  pockets, 
let  me  see!  If  you  obey,  I  shall  not  harm  you; 
if  you  resist,  you  are  a  dead  boy!" 

The  youth  produced,  with  trepidation,  a  sou, 
half  a  cigarette,  a  piece  of  string,  a  murderous 
clasp  knife,  a  young  lady's  photograph,  and 
Labaregue's  notice.  The  next  moment  the  ex- 
change of  manuscripts  had  been  deftly  accom- 
plished, 

"Devil  take  your  rubbish,"  cried  the  apache; 
"I  want  none  of  it — there!  Be  off,  or  I  shall 
shoot  you  for  wasting  my  time." 

The  whole  affair  had  occupied  less  than  a 
minute;  and  the  three  adventurers  skipped  to 
Montmartre  rejoicing. 

And  how  glorious  was  their  jubilation  in  the 
hour  when  they  opened  La  Voix  and  read  Trico- 
trin's  pronouncement  over  the  initials  "J.  L."! 
There  it  was,  printed  word  for  word — ^the  lead- 
ing lady  was  dismissed  with  a  line,  the  ingenue 
received  a  sneer,  and  for  the  rest,  the  column 
was  a  panegyric  of  the  waiting-maid!  The 
triumph  of  the  waiting-maid  was  unprecedented 
and  supreme.  Certainly,  when  Labaregue  saw 
the  paper,  he  flung  round  to  the  office  furious. 


160         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

But  La  Voioo  did  not  desire  people  to  know  that 
it  had  been  taken  in;  so  the  matter  was  hushed 
up,  and  Labaregue  went  about  pretending  that 
he  actually  thought  all  those  fine  things  of  the 
w^aiting-maid. 

The  only  misfortune  was  that  when  Tricotrin 
called  victoriously  upon  Claudine,  to  clasp  her 
in  his  arms,  he  found  her  in  hysterics  on  the 
sofa — and  it  transpired  that  she  had  not  repre- 
sented the  waiting-maid  after  all.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  had  at  the  last  moment  been  promoted 
to  the  part  of  the  ingenue,  while  the  waiting-maid 
had  been  played  by  a  little  actress  whom  she  much 
disliked. 

"It  is  cruel,  it  is  monstrous,  it  is  heart- 
rending!" gasped  Tricotrin,  when  he  grasped  the 
enormity  of  his  failure;  "but,  light  of  my  life, 
why  should  you  blame  me  for  this  villainy  of 
Labaregue's?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said;  "however,  you 
bore  me,  you  and  your  'influence  with  the  Press.' 
Get  out!" 


THE  DOLL  IN  THE  PINK  SILK  DRESS 

How  can  I  write  the  fourth  Act  with  this 
ridiculous  thing  posed  among  my  papers  ?  What 
thing?  It  is  a  doll  in  a  pink  silk  dress — an 
elaborate  doll  that  walks,  and  talks,  and  warbles 
snatches  from  the  operas.  A  terrible  lot  it  costl 
Why  does  an  old  dramatist  keep  a  doll  on  his 
study  table?  I  do  not  keep  it  there.  It  came 
in  a  box  from  the  Boulevard  an  hour  ago,  ana 
I  took  it  from  its  wrappings  to  admire  its  accom- 
plishments again — and  ever  since  it  has  been 
reminding  me  that  women  are  strange  beings. 

Yes,  women  are  strange,  and  this  toy  sets  me 
thinking  of  one  woman  in  particular :  that  woman 
who  sued,  supplicated  for  my  help,  and  then, 

when  she  had  all  my  interest Confound  the 

doll;  here  is  the  incident,  just  as  it  happened! 

It  happened  when  all  Paris  flocked  to  see  my 
plays  and  ''Paul  de  Varenne"  was  a  name  to 
conjure  with.  Fashions  change.  To-day  I  am  a 
little  out  of  the  nmning,  perhaps;  younger  men 
have  shot  forward.  In  those  days  I  was  still 
supreme,  I  was  master  of  the  Stage. 

161 


162         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Listen!  It  was  a  spring  morning,  and  I  was 
lolling  at  my  study  window,  scenting  the  lilac  in 
the  air.  Maximin,  my  secretary,  came  in  and 
said: 

"Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Laurent  asks  if  she  can 
see  you,  monsieur." 

"Who  is  mademoiselle  Jeanne  Laurent?"  I— 
inquired. 

"She  is  an  actress  begging  for  an  engagement, 
monsieur." 

"I  regret  that  I  am  exceedingly  busy.  Tell 
her  to  write." 

"The  lady  has  already  written  a  thousand 
times,"  he  mentioned,  going.  "  'Jeanne  Laurent' 
has  been  one  of  the  most  constant  contributors 
to  our  waste-paper  basket." 

"Then  tell  her  that  I  regret  I  can  do  nothing 
for  her.  Mon  Dieu!  is  it  imagined  that  I  have 
no  other  occupation  than.to  interview  nonenti- 
ties? By  the  way,  how  is  it  you  have  bothered  me 
about  her,  why  this  unusual  embassy?  I  suppose 
she  is  pretty,  hein?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"And  young?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

I  wavered.    Let  us  say  my  sympathy  was^_ 
stirred.    But  perhaps  the  lilac  was  responsible — 
lilac  and  a  pretty  girl  seem  to  me  a  natural  com- 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  163 

bination,  like  coffee  and  a  cigarette.  "Send  her 
in!"  I  said. 

I  sat  at  the  table  and  picked  up  a  pen. 

"Monsieur    de    Varenne^ ~"     She    paused 

nervously  on  the  threshold. 

Maximin  was  a  fool,  she  was  not  "pretty"; 
she  was  either  plain,  or  beautiful.  To  my  mind, 
jshe  had  beauty,  and  if  she  hadn't  been  an  actress 
come  to  pester  me  for  a  part  I  should  have  fore- 
seen a  very  pleasant  quarter  of  an  hour.  "I  can 
spare  you  only  a  moment,  mademoiselle,"  1  said, 
ruffling  blank -paper. 

"It  is  most  kind  of  you  to  spare  me  that." 

I  liked  her  voice  too.  "Be  seated,"  I  said  more 
g^taciouisly. 

"Monsieur,  I  have  come  to  implore  you  to  do 
something  for  me.  I  am  breaking  my  heart  in 
the  profession  for  want  of  a  helping  hand.  Will 
you  be  generous  and  give  me  a  chance?" 

"My  dear  mademoiselle — er — Laurent,"  i 
said,  "I  sympathise  with  your  difficulties,  and  I 
thoroughly  understand  them,  but  I  have  no  en- 
gagement to  offer  you — I  am  not  a  manager." 

She  smiled  bitterly.  "You  are  de  Varenne — 
a  word  from  you  would  'make'  me!" 

'I  was  wondering  what  her  age  was.  About 
eight-and-twenty,  I  thought,  but  alternately  she 
looked  much  younger  and  much  older* 


164         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"You  exaggerate  my  influence — like  every 
other  artist  that  I  consent  to  see.  Hundreds 
have  sat  in  that  chair  and  cried  that  I  could 
'make'  them.  It  is  all  bosh.  Be  reasonable!  I 
cannot  'make'  anybody." 

"You  could  cast  me  for  a  part  in  Paris.  You 
are  'not  a  manager/  but  any  manager  will  engage 
a  woman  that  you  recommend.  Oh,  I  know  that 
hundreds  appeal  to  you,  I  know  that  I  am  only 
one  of  a  crowd;  but,  monsieur,  think  what  it 
means  to  me !  Without  help,  I  shall  go  on  knock- 
ing at  the  stage  doors  of  Paris  and  never  get 
inside;  I  shall  go  on  writing  to  the  Paris  man- 
agers and  never  get  an  answer.  Without  help 
I  shall  go  on  eating  my  heart  out  in  the  provinces 
till  I  am  old  and  tired  and  done  for!" 

Her  earnestness  touched  me.    I  had  heard  the^ 
same  tale  so  often  that  I  was  sick  of  hearing  it,, 
but  this  woman's  earnestness  touched  me.     If  I 
had  had  a  small  part  vacant,  I  would  have  tried 
her  in  it* 

'Again,"  I  said,  "as  a  dramatist  I  fully  under- 
stand the  difficulties  of  an  actress's  career;  but 
you,  as  an  actress,  do  not  understand  a  drama- 
tist's. There,  is  no  piece  of  mine  going  into  re- 
hearsal now,  therefore  I  have  no  opening  for  you, 
myself;  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  write  to  a 
manager  or  a  brother  author,  advising  him  to 


DOLL  IN  PINK  Sn.K  DRESS  165 

entrust  a  part,  even  the  humblest,  to  a  lady  of 
whose  capabilities  I  know  nothing." 

"I  am  not  applying  for  a  humble  part,"  she 
answered  quietly. 

"Hein?" 

"My  line  is  lead/* 

I  stared  at  her  pale  face,  speechless;  the 
audacity  of  the  reply  took  my  breath  away. 

*'You  are  mad,"  I  said,  rising. 

"I  sound  so  to  you,  monsieur?" 

"Stark,  staring  mad.  You  bewail  that  you 
are  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and  at  the  same 
instant  you  stipulate  that  I  shall  lift  you  at  a 
bound  to  the  top.  Either  you  are  a  lunatic,  or 
you  are  an  amateur." 

She,  too,  rose — resigned  to  her  dismissal,  it 
seemed.  Then,  suddenly,  with  a  gesture  that  was 
a  veritable  abandonment  of  despair,  she  laughed. 

"That's  it,  I  am  an  amateur!"  she  rejoined 
passionately.  -  "I  will  tell  you  the  kind  of 
'amateur'  I  am,  monsieur  de  Varenne!  I  was 
learning  my  business  in  a  fit -up  when  I  was  six 
years  old — yes,  I  was  playing  parts  on  the  road 
when  happier  children  were  playing  games  in 
nurseries.  J.  was  thrust  on  for  lead  when  I  was 
a  gawk  of  fifteen,  and  had  to  wrestle  with  half 
a  dozen  roles  in  a  vv^eek,  and  was  beaten  if  I  failed 
to  make  my  points.    I  have  supered  to  stars,  not 


166         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

to  earn  the  few  francs  I  got  by  it,  for  by  that 
time  the  fit-ups  paid  me  better,  but  that  I  might 
observe,  and  improve  my  method.  I  have  waited 
in  the  rain,  for  hours,  at  the  doors  of  the  milKners 
and  modistes,  that  I  might  note  how  great  ladies 
stepped  from  their  carriages  and  spoke  to  their 
footmen — and  when  I  snatched  a  lesson  from 
their  aristocratic  tones  I  was  in  heaven,  though 
my  feet  ached  and  the  rain  soaked  my  wretched 
clothes.  I  have  played  good  women  and  bad 
women,  beggars  and  queens,  ingenues  and  hags. 
I  was  born  and  bred  on  the  stage,  have  suffered 
and  starved  on  it.  It  is  my  life  and  my  destiny." 
She  sobbed.    "An  'amateur'!'^ 

I  could  not  let  her  go  like  that.  She  interested 
me  strongly ;  somehow  I  believed  in  her.  I  strode 
to  and  fro,  considering. 

*'Sit  down  again,"  I  said.  "I  will  do  this  for 
you:  I  will  f^o  to  the  country  to  see  your  per- 
formance    When  is  your  next  show?  *' 

''I  have  nothing  in  view." 

'^Bigre!    Well,  the  next  time  you  are  playing, 
,Tite  to  me." 

"You  will  have  forgotten  all  about  me,"  she* 
urged  feverishly,   "or  your  interest  will  have 
faded,  or  Fate  will  prevent  your  coming." 

"Why  do  you  say  so?" 

*' Something  tells  me.    You  will  help  me  now. 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  167 

or  you  will  never  help  me— my  chance  is  to-day! 
Monsieur,  I  entreat  you " 

"To-day  I  can  do  nothing  at  all,  because  I 
have  not  seen  you  act." 

"I  could  recite  to  you/' 

"Zutr 

"I  could  rehearse  on  trial/' 

"And  if  you  made  a  mess  of  it?  A  nice  fool 
I  should  look,  after  fighting  to  get  you  in!" 

A  servant  interrupted  us  to  tell  me  that  my 
old  friend  de  Lavardens  was  downstairs.  And 
now  I  did  a  foolish  thing.  When  I  intimated  to 
mademoiselle  Jeanne  Laurent  that  our  interview 
must  conclude,  she  fcegered  so  hard  to  be  allowed 
to  speak  to  me  again  after  my  \isitor  weiit,  that 
I  consented  to  her  waiting.  Why?  I  had  al- 
ready said  all  that  I  had  to  say,  and  infinitely 
more  than  I  had  contemplated.  Perhaps  she 
impressed  me  more  powerfully  than  I  realised; 
perhaps  it  was  sheer  compassion,  for  she  had  an 
invincible  instinct  that  if  I  sent  her  away  at  this 
juncture,  she  would  never  hear  from  me  any 
more.  I  had  her  shown  into  the  next  room,  and 
received  General  de  Lavardens  in  the  study. 

Since  his  retirement  from  the  Army,  de 
Lavardens  had  lived  in  his  chateau  at  St.  Wan- 
drille,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Caudebec-en- 
Caux,  and  we  had  met  infrequently  of  late.    But 


168         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOXJLEVARD 

we  had  been  at  college  together;  I  had  entered 
on  my  military  service  in  the  same  regiment  as 
he ;  and  we  had  once  been  comrades.  I  was  glad 
to  see  him. 

"How  are  you,  my  dear  fellow?  I  didn't  know 
you  were  in  Paris." 

"I  have  been  here  twenty-four  hours/'  he  said. 
''I  have  looked  you  up  at  the  first  opportunity. 
Now  am  I  a  nuisance?  Be  frank!  I  told  the 
servant  that  if  you  were  at  work  you  weren't 
to  be  disturbed.  Don't  humbug  about  it;  if  I  am 
in  the  way,  say  so!" 

"You  are  not  in  the  way  a  bit,"  I  declared. 
"Put  your  hat  and  cane  down.  What's  the  news  ? 
How  is  Georges?" 

"Georges"  was  Captain  de  Lavardens,  his  son, 
a  young  man  with  good  looks,  and  brains,  an 
officer  for  whom  people  predicted  a  brilliant 
future. 

"Georges  is  all  right,"  he  said  hesitatingly. 
"He  is  dining  with  me  to-night.  I  want  you  to 
come,  too,  if  you  can.    Are  you  free?'* 

"To-night?  Yes,  certainly;  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted." 

"That  was  one  of  the  reasons  I  came  round — 
to  ask  you  to  join  us."  He  glanced  towards  the 
table  again.  "Are  you  sure  you  are  not  in  a 
hurry  to  get  back  to  that?" 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  169 

"Have  a  cigar,  and  don't  be  a  fool.  What  have 
you  got  to  say  for  yourself?  Why  are  you  on 
the  spree  here?" 

"I  came  up  to  see  Georges,"  he  said.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  my  dear  chap,  I  am  devilish 
worried." 

"Not  about  Georges?"  I  asked,  surprised. 
^He  grunted.    "About  Georges." 

"Really?    I'm  very  sorry." 

"Yes.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  it.  You 
may  be  able  to  give  me  a  tip.  Georges — the  boy 
I  hoped  so  much  for" — his  gruff  voice  quivered 
— "is  infatuated  with  an  actress." 

^'Georges  ?'^ 

"What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"Are  you  certain  it  is  true?" 

"True?  He  makes  no  secret  of  it.  That  isn't 
all.    The  idiot  wants  to  marry  her!" 

"Georges  wants  to  marry  an  actress?" 

"Voila!" 

"My  dear  old  friend!"  I  stammered. 

"Isn't  it  amazing?  One  thinks  one  knows  the 
character  of  one's  own  son,  hein?  And  then, 
suddenly,  a  boy — a  boy?  A  man!  Georges  will 
soon  be  thirty — a  man  one  is  proud  of,  who  is 
distinguishing  himself  in  his  profession,  he  loses 
his  head  about  some  creature  of  the  theatre  and 
proposes  to  mar  his  whole  career." 


170         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"As  for  that,  it  might  not  mar  it,"  I  said. 

**We  are  not  in  England,  in  France  gentlemen 
do  not  choose  their  wives  from  the  stage!  I  can 
speak  freely  to  you ;  you  move  among  these  peo- 
ple because  your  writing  has  taken  you  among 
them,  but  you  are  not  of  their  breed," 

"Have  you  reasoned  with  him?" 

"Reasoned?    Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Prepare  to  be  amused.  He  said  that  'unfor- 
tunritely,  the  lady  did  not  love  him' !" 

''What?    Then  there  is  no  danger?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it  takes  you  in? 
You  may  be  sure  her  'reluctance'  is  policy,  she 
thinks  it  wise  to  disguise  her  eagerness  to  hook 
him.  He  told  me  plainly  that  he  would  not  rest 
till  he  had  won  her.  It  is  a  nice  position !  The 
honour  of  the  family  is  safe  only  till  this  adven- 
turess consents,  consents  to  accept  his  hand! 
What  can  I  do?  I  can  retard  the  marriage  by 
refusing  my  permission,  but  I  cannot  prevent  it, 
if  he  summons  me.  ...  Of  course,  if  I  could 
arrange  matters  with  her,  I  would  do  it  like  a 
shot — at  any  price!" 

"Who  is  she?" 

"A  nobody;  he  tells  me  she  is  quite  obscure. 
I  don't  suppose  you  have  ever  heard  of  her.  But 
I  thought  you  might  make  inquiries  for  me,  that 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  171 

you  might  ascertain  whether  she  is  the  sort  of 
woman  we  could  settle  with?" 

"I  will  do  all  I  can,  you  may  depend.  Where 
is  she — in  Paris?" 

''Yes,  just  now." 

"What's  her  name?" 

''Jeanne  Laurent." 

My  mouth  fell  open:    "Hein?" 

"Do  you  know  her?" 

"She  is  there!" 

"What?" 

"In  the  next  room.  She  just  called  on  busi- 
ness." 

"Mon  Dieu!     That's  queer!" 

"It's  lucky.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
met  her." 

"What's  she  like?" 

"Have  you  never  seen  her?  You  shall  do  so 
in  a  minute.  She  came  to  beg  me  to  advance  her 
professionally,  she  wants  my  help.  This  ought 
to  save  you  some  money,  mj^-  friend.  We'll  have 
her  in !    I  shall  tell  her  who  you  are." 

"How  shall  I  talk  to  her?" 

"Leave  it  tome." 

I  crossed  the  landing,  and  opened  the  salon 
door.  The  room  was  littered  wath  the  illustrated 
journals,  but  she  was  not  diverting  herself  with 
any  of  them — she  was  sitting  before  a  copy  of 


172         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

La  Joconde,  striving  to  reproduce  on  her  own 
face  the  enigma  of  the  smile:  I  had  discovered 
an  actress  who  never  missed  an  opportunity. 

''Please  come  here." 

She  followed  me  back,  and  my  friend  stood 
scowling  at  her. 

"This  gentleman  is  General  de  Lavardens," 

She  bowed — slightly,  perfectly.  That  bow  ac- 
knowledged de  Lavardens'  presence,  and  rebuked 
the  manner  of  my  introduction,  with  all  the 
dignity  of  the  patricians  whom  she  had  studied 
in  the  rain.^ 

''Mademoiselle,  when  my  servant  announced 
that  the  General  was  downstairs  you  heard  the 
name.  You  did  not  tell  me  that  you  knew  his 
son." 

"J)ame,  non,  monsieur!"  she  murmured. 

/'And  when  you  implored  me  to  assist  you, 
you  did  not  tell  me  that  you  aspired  to  a  marriage 
that  would  compel  you  to  leave  the  stage.  I 
never  waste  my  influence.    Good-morning!" 

"I  do  not  aspire  to  the  marriage,"  she  faltered, 
^ale  as  death. 

"Rubbish,  I  know  all  about  it.  Of  course,  it 
is  your  aim  to  marry  him  sooner  or  later,  and  of 
course  he  will  make  it  a  condition  that  you  cease 
to  act.    Well,  I  have  no  time  to  help  a  woman 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  173 

who  is  playing  the  fool!  That's  all  about  it.  I 
needn't  detain  you." 

"I  have  r^^fused  to  marry  him,"  she  gasped. 
''On  my  honour  1    You  can  ask  him.    It  is  a  fact." 

''But  you  see  him  still,"  broke  in  de  Lavardens 
wrathfuUy;  ''he  is  with  you  every  day!  That 
is  a  fact,  too,  isn't  it?  If  your  refusal  is  sincere, 
why  are  you  not  consistent?  whj^  do  you  want 
him  at  your  side  ?" 

"Because,  monsieur,"  she  answered,  "I  am 
weak  enough  to  miss  him  when  he  goes." 

"Ah !  you  admit  it.  You  profess  to  be  in  love 
with  him?" 

"No,  mxonsieur,"  she  dissented  thoughtfully, 
"I  am  not  in  love  with  him — and  my  refusal  has 
been  quite  sincere,  incredible  as  it  may  seem  that 
a  woman  like  myself  rejects  a  man  like  him.  I 
could  never  make  a  marriage  that  would  mean 
death  to  my  ambition.  I  could  not  sacrifice  my 
art — ^the  stage  is  too  dear  to  me  for  that.  So  it 
is  evident  that  I  am  not  in  love  with  him,  for 
when  a  v/oman  loves,  the  man  is  dearer  to  her 
than  all  else." 

De  Lavardens  grunted,  I  knew  his  grunts: 
there  was  some  apology  in  this  one. 

"The  position  is  not  fa]^  to  my  son,"  he 
demurred.  "You  show  good  sense  in  what  you 
say — you  are  an  artist,  you  are  quite  right  to  de- 


174.         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

vote  yourself  to  your  career;  but  you  reject  and 
encourage  him  at  the  same  time.  If  he  married 
you  it  would  be  disastrous — ^to  you,  and  to  him ; 
you  would  ruin  his  life,  and  spoil  your  own. 
Enfin,  give  him  a  chance  to  forget  you!  Send 
him  away.  What  do  you  want  to  keep  seeing 
him  for?" 

She  sighed,    "It  is  wrong  of  me,  I  own!" 

'Mt  is  highly  unnatural,"  said  I, 

"No,  monsieur;  it  is  far  from  being  unnatural, 
and  I  will  tell  you  why — he  is  the  only  man  I 
have  ever  known,  in  all  my  vagabond  life,  who 
realised  that  a  struggling  actress  might  have  the 
soul  of  a  gentlewoman.  Before  I  met  him,  I  had 
never  heard  a  man  speak  to  me  with  courtesy, 
excepting  on  the  stage;  I  had  never  knov/n  a 
man  to  take  my  hand  respectfully  when  he  was 
not  performing  behind  the  footlights.  ...  I  met 
him  first  in  the  country;  I  was  playing  the 
Queen  in  JRuy  Bias,  and  the  manager  brought 
him  to  me  in  the  wings.  In  everything  he  said 
and  did  he  was  different  from  others.  We  were 
friends  for  months  before  he  told  me  that  he 
loved  me.  His  friendship  has  been  the  gift  of 
God,  to  brighten  my  miserable  lot.  Never  to  see 
him  any  more  would  be  awful  to  me!" 

.  I  perceived  that  if  she  was  not  in  love  with  him 
she  was  so  dangerously  near  to  it  that  a  trifle 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  175. 

might  turn  the  scale.  De  Lavardens  had  the  same 
thougiit.     His  glance  at  me  was  apprehensive. 

"However^  you  acknowledge  that  you  are  be- 
having badly!"  I  exclaimed.  «*'It  is  all  right  for 
you,  friendship  is  enough  for  you,  and  you  pur- 
sue your  career.  But  for  him,  it  is  different;  he 
seeks  your  love/  and  he  neglects  his  duties.  For 
him  to  spend  his  life  sighing  for  you  would  be 
monstrous,  and  for  him  to  marry  you  would  be 
fatal.  Ji  you  like  him  so  much,  be  just  to  him, 
iet  him  free!'  Tell  hirn  that  he  is  not  to  visit  you 
uny  m<3rre.'' 

''He  does  not  visit  me;  he  has  never  been  inside 
my  lodging." 

''Well,  that  he  is  not  to  write  there — that  there 
are  to  be  no  more  dinners,  drives,  bouquets!" 

"And  I  do  not  let  him  squander  money  on  me. 
I  am  not  that  kind  of  woman." 

"We  do  not  accuse  you,  mademoiselle.  On  the 
contrary,  we  appeal  to  your  good  heart.  Be  con- 
siderate, be  brave !    Say  good-bye  to  him !" 

"You  are  asking  me  to  suffer  cruelly,"  she 
moaned. 

"It  is  for  your  friend's  benefit.  Also,  the  more 
you  suffer,  the  better  you  will  act.  Every  actress 
should  suffer." 

"Monsieur,  I  have  served  my  apprenticeship 
to  pain." 


176         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

'^There  are  other  things  than  friendship — ^you 
have  your  prospects  to  think  about." 

"What  prospects?"  she  flashed  back. 

"Well,  I  cannot  speak  definitely  to-day,  as  you 
know;  but  you  #puld  not  find  me  unapprecia- 
tive."  \ 

De  Lavardens  grunted  again — emotionally, 
this  time.    I  checked  him  with  a  frown. 

"What  use  would  it  be  for  me  to  refuse  tr 
see  him?"  she  objected  chokily.  "When  I  am 
playing  anywhere,  he  can  always  see  me.  I  can- 
not kill  his  love  by  denying  myself  his  companion- 
ship. Besides,  he  would  not  accept  the  dismissal. 
One  night,  when  I  left  the  theatre,  I  should  find 
him  waiting  there  again." 

This  was  unpalatably  true, 
*  "If  a  clever  woman  desires  to  dismiss  a  man, 
she  can  dismiss  him  thoroughly,  especially  a 
clever  actress,"  I  said.  "You  could  talk  to  him 
in  such  a  fashion  that  he  would  have  no  wish  to 
meet  you  again.    Such  things  have  been  done." 

"What?  You  want  me  to  teach  him  to  despise 
me?" 

TMuch  better  if  he  did:" 
To  turn  his  esteem  to  scorn,  hein?" 
Tt  would  be  a  generous  action." 

"To  falsify  and  de^z-ade  myself?" 

"For  your  hero's  good !" 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  177 

"I  will  not  do  it!"  she  flamed.  ''You  demand 
too  much.  What  have  you  done  for  me  that  I 
should  sacrifice  myself  to  please  you?  I  entreat 
your  help,  and  you  give  me  empty  phrases;  I 
cry  that  I  despair  this  morning,  and  you  answer 
that  by-and-by,  some  tim.e,  in  the  vague  future, 
you  will  remember  that  I  exist.  I  shall  not  do 
this  for  you — I  keep  my  friend!" 

''Your  rhetoric  has  no  weight  with  me,"  I  said. 
"I  do  not  pretend  that  I  have  a  claim  on  you. 
In  such  circumstances  a  noble  woman  would  take 
the  course  I  suggest,  not  for  my  sake,  not  for 
the  sake  of  General  de  Lavardens,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  man  himself.  You  will  'keep  your 
friend'?  Bien!  But  you  will  do  so  because  you 
are  indifferent  to  his  welfare  and  too  selfish  to 
release  him." 

She  covered  her  face.  There  were  tears  on  it. 
The  General  and  I  exchanged  glances  again. 

I  went  on : 

"You  charge  me  with  giv'ig  you  only  empty 
phrases.  That  is  undeserved,  I  said  all  that  was 
possible,  and  I  meant  what  1  said.  I  could  not 
pledge  myself  to  put  you  into  anything  wHhout 
knowing  what  you  are  capable  of  doing-  but, 
if  you  retain  my  good  will,  I  repeat  that  I  will 
attend  your  next  performance." 

"And  then?"  she  queried. 


178         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Then— if  I  think  well  of  it— you  shall  have 
a  good  part." 

"Bigre!  I  cannot  say  that.  A  good  part,  in 
Paris!" 

"It  is  a  promise?" 

"Emphatically — if  I  think  well  of  your  per- 
formance." 

"Of  my  next — ^the  very  next  part  I  play?" 

"Of  the  very  next  part  you  play." 

She  paused,  reflecting.  The  pause  lasted  so 
long  that  it  began  to  seem  to  my  suspense  as  if 
none  of  us  would  ever  speak  again.  I  took  a 
cigarette,  and  offered  the  box,  in  silence,  to  de 
Lavardens.  He  shook  his  head  without  turning 
it  to  me,  his  gaze  was  riveted  on  the  woman. 

"All  right,"  she  groaned,  "I  agree!" 

"Ail!  good  giri!" 

"All  you  require  is  that  Captain  de  Lavardens 
shall  no  longer  seek  me  for  his  wife.  Is  that 
it?" 

"That's  it." 

"Very  well.  I  know  what  would  repel  him — 
it  shall  be  done  to-night.  But  you,  gentlemen, 
will  have  to  make  the  opportunity  for  me;  you 
will  have  to  bring  him  to  my  place — both  of  you. 
You  can  find  some  reason  for  proposing  it  ?  To- 
night at  nine  o'clock.    He  knows  the  address." 


I 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  179 

She  moved  weakly  to  the  door. 

De  Lavardens  took  three  strides  and  grasped 
her  hands.  "Mademoiselle,"  he  stuttered,  "I 
have  no  words  to  speak  my  gratitude.  I  am  a 
father,  and  I  love  my  son,  but — ^mon  Dieu!  if 
— if  things  had  been  different,  upon  my  soul,  I 
should  have  been  proud  to  call  you  my  daughter- 
in-law!" 

Oh,  how  she  could  bow,  that  woman — ^the  elo- 
quence of  her  ill- fed  form! 

"Au  revoir,  gentlemen,"  she  said. 

Phew!    We  dropped  into  chcirs. 

''Paul,"  he  graT;J;ed  at  me,  "we  have  been  a 
pair  of  brutes!" 

"I  know  it.    But  you  feel  much  relieved?" 

"I  feel  another  man.  What  is  she  going  to 
say  to  him?  I  wish  it  were  over.  I  should  find 
it  devilish  difficult  to  propose  going  to  see  her, 
you  know!  It  will  have  to  be  your  suggestion. 
And  supposing  he  won't  take  us?" 

"He  will  take  us  right  enough,"  I  declared, 
"and  rejoice  at  the  chance,  Hourra!  hourr^! 
hcurra!"  i  sprang  u,>  and  clapped  him  on  the 
back.  "My  friend,  if  that  woman  had  thrown 
herself  away  on  Georges  it  might  have  been  a 
national  calamity." 

"What?"  he  roared,  purpling. 

"Oh,  no  slight  to  Georges!    I  think — ^I  think 


180         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

— I  am  afraid  to  say  what  I  think,  I  am  afraid 
to  think  it!"  I  paced  the  room,  struggling  to 
control  myself.  ''Only,  once  in  a  blue  moon, 
Jules,  there  is  a  woman  born  of  the  People  with 
a  gift  that  is  a  blessing,  and  a  curse — and  her 
genius  makes  an  epoch,  and  her  name  makes 
theatrical  history.  And  if  a  lover  of  the  stage 
like  me  discovers  such  a  woman,  you  stodgy  old 
soldier,  and  blazes  her  genius  in  his  work,  he  feels 
like  Cheops,  Chephremis,  and  iVsychis  rearing 
the  Pyramids  for  immorta±ity  T 

My  excitement  startled  him.  "You  believe  she 
is  a  genius  ?    Really  ?" 

''I  dare  not  believe,"  I  panted.  "I  refuse  to 
let  myself  believe,  for  I  have  never  seen  blue 
moons.    But — but — I  wonder!' 

We  dined  at  Voisin's.  It  had  been  arranged 
that  he  should  make  some  alli\sion  to  the  court- 
ship; and  I  said  to  Georges,  ''I  hope  you  don't 
mind  your  father  having  mentioned  the  subject 
to  me — ^we  are  eld  friends,  you  know?"  The 
topic  was  led  up  to  very  easily.*  It  was  apparent 
that  Georges  thought  the  world  of  her.  I 
admired  the  way  he  spoke.  It  was  quiet  and 
earnest.  As  I  feigned  partial  sympathy  with  his 
matrimonial  hopes,  I  own  that  I  felt  a  Judas. 

"I,  too,  am  an  artist,"  I  said.    "To  me  social 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  181 

distinctions  naturally  seem  somewhat  less  impor- 
tant than  they  do  to  your  father." 

"Indeed,  monsieur,"  he  answered  gravely, 
"mademoiselle  Laurent  is  worthy  of  homage.  If 
she  were  willing  to  accept  me,  every  man  who 
knew  her  character  would  think  me  fortunate. 
Her  education  has  not  qualified  her  to  debate 
with  professors,  and  she  has  no  knowledge  of 
society  small-talk,  but  she  is  intelligent,  and  re- 
fined, and  good." 

It  was  child's  play.  A  sudden  notion,  over  the 
liqucjurs :  "Take  us  to  see  her !  Come  along,  mon 
ami!"  Astonishment  (amateurish);  persuasion 
(masterly) ;  Georges's  diffidence  to  intrude,  but 
his  obvious  delight  at  the  thought  of  the  favour- 
able impression  she  would  create.  He  had 
"never  called  there  yet — it  would  be  very  uncon- 
ventional at  such  an  hour?"  "Zut,  among  artists ! 
My  card  will  be  a  passport,  I  assure  yo'i!."  Poor 
fellow,  the  trap  made  short  work  of  him!  At 
half-past  eight  we  were  all  rattling  to  the  left 
bank  in  a  cab. 

The  cab  stopped  before  a  dilapidated  house  in 
an  unsavoury  street.  I  knew  that  the  aspect  of 
her  home  went  to  his  heart.  "Mademoiselle 
Laurent  has  won  no  prize  in  her  profession,"  he 
observed,  "and  she  is  an  honest  girl."    Well  said! 


182         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

In  the  dim  passage  a  neglected  child  directed  us 
to  the  fourth  floor/  On  the  fourth  floor  a  slattern, 
who  replied  at  last  to  our  persistent  tapping,  told 
us  shortly  that  mademoiselle  was  out.  I  realised 
that  we  had  committed  the  error  of  being  before 
our  time ;  and  the  woman,  evidently  unprepared 
for  our  visit,  did  not  suggest  our  going  in.  It 
seemed  bad  stage-mf^nagement. 

"  vViii  it  be  long  before  mademoiselle  is  back?" 
I  inquired,  annoyed. 

"Mais  non." 

"We  will  wait,"  I  said,  and  we  were  admitted 
sulkily  to  a  room,  of  which  the  conspicuous  fea- 
tures were  a  malodorous  lamp,  and  a  brandy- 
bottle.  I  had  taken  the  old  drab  for  a  landlady 
rather  the  worse  for  liquor,  but,  more  amiably, 
she  remarked  now:  "It's  a  pity  Jeanne  didn't 
know  you  were  coming." 

At  the  familiar  "Jeanne"  I  saw  Georges  start. 

"Mademoiselle  is  a  friend  of  yours?"  I  asked, 
dismayed. 

"A  friend?  She  is  my  daughter."  She  sat 
down. 

By  design  the  girl  was  out!  The  thought 
flashed  on  me.  It  flashed  on  me  that  she  had 
plotted  for  her  lover  to  learn  what  a  mother-in- 
law  he  would  have.  The  revelation  must  appal 
him.    I  stole  a  look — his  face  was  blanched.    The 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  183 

General  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  nodded  to  him- 
self. The  nod  said  plainly,  ''He  is  saved.  Thank 
God!" 

"Will  you  take  a  little  drop  while  you  are  wait- 
ing, gentlemen?" 

''Nothing  for  us,  thank  you." 

She  drank  alone,  and  seemed  to  forget  that 
we  were  present.  None  of  us  spoke,  I  began  to 
wonder  if  we  need  remain.  Then,  drinking,  she 
grew  garrulous.  It  was  of  Jeanne  she  talked. 
She  gave  us  her  maternal  views,  and  incidentally 
betrayed  infamies  of  her  own  career.  I  am  a 
man  of  the  world,  but  I  shuddered  at  that  woman. 
The  suitor  who  could  have  risked  making  her 
child  his  wife  would  have  been  demented,  or  sub- 
lime. And  while  she  maundered  on,  gulping 
from  her  glass,  and  chuckling  at  her  jests,  the 
ghastliness  of  it  was  that,  in  the  gutter  face  be- 
fore us,  I  could  trace  a  likeness  to  Jeanne;  I 
think  Georges  must  have  traced  it,  too.  The 
menace  of  heredity  was  horrible.  We  were  listen- 
ing to  Jeanne  wrecked,  Jeanne  thirty  years  older 
— ^Jeanne  as  she  might  become! 

Ciel !  To  choose  a  bride  with  this  blood  in  her 
— a  bride  from  the  dregs ! 

"Let  us  go,  Georges,"  I  murmured.  "Courage! 
You  wiU  forget  her.    We'll  be  off." 


184        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

He  was  livid.  I  saw  that  he  could  bear  no 
more.  i 

But  the  creature  overheard,  and  in  those  bleary 
eyes  inteUigence  awoke. 

"What?  Hold  on!"  she  stammered.  "Is  one 
of  you  the  toff  that  wants  to  marry  her?  Ah! 
.  .  .  I've  been  letting  on  finely,  haven't  I?  It 
was  a  plant,  was  it?  You've  come  here  ferreting 
and  spying?"  She  turned  towards  me  in  a  fury: 
"You!" 

Certainly  I  had  made  a  comment  from  time  to 
time,  but  I  could  not  see  why  she  should  single 
me  out  for  her  attack.  She  lurched  towards  me 
savagely.  Her  face  was  thrust  into  mine.  And 
then,  so  low  that  only  I  could  hear,  and  like 
another  woman,  she  breathed  a  question: 

"Can  I  act?" 

Jeanne  herself!  Every  nerve  in  me  jumped. 
The  next  instant  she  was  back  in  her  part,  railing 
at  Georges. 

I  took  a  card  from  my  case,  and  scribbled  six 
words. 

"When  your  daughter  comes  in,  give  her  that!" 
I  said.  I  had  scribbled:  "I  write  you  a  star 
role!" 

She  gathered  the  message  at  a  glance,  and  I 
swear  that  the  moroseness  of  her  gaze  was  not 
lightened  by  so  much  as  a  gleam.    She  was  rep- 


DOLL  IN  PINK  SILK  DRESS  185 

resenting  a  character;  the  actress  sustained  the 
character  even  while  she  read  words  that  were  to 
raise  her  from  privation  to  renown. 

''Not  that  I  care  if  I  have  queered  her  chance," 
she  snarled.  ''A  good  job,  too,  the  selfish  cat! 
I've  got  nothing  to  thank  her  for.  Serve  her 
right  if  you  do  give  her  the  go-by,  my  Jacka- 
napes, /  don't  blame  you!" 

"Madame  Laurent,"  Georges  answered  stern- 
ly, and  his  answer  vibrated  through  the  room,  ''I 
have  never  admired,  pitied,  or  loved  Jeanne  so 
much  as  now  that  I  know  that  she  has  been — 
motherless." 

All  three  of  us  stood  stone-still.  The  .first  to 
move  was  she.  I  saw  what  was  going  to  happen. 
She  burst  out  crying. 

"It's  I,  Jeanne! — I  love  you!  I  thought  I 
loved  the  theatre  best — I  was  wrong."  Instinc- 
tively she  let  my  card  fall  to  the  ground.  "For- 
give me — I  did  it  for  your  sake,  too.  It  was 
cruel,  I  am  ashamed.  Oh,  my  own,  if  my  love 
will  not  disgrace  you,  take  me  for  your  wife !  In 
all  the  world  there  is  no  woman  who  will  love  you 
better — in  all  my  heart  there  is  no  room  for  any- 
thing but  you!" 

They  were  in  each  other's  arms.  De  Lavar- 
dens,  whom  the  proclamation  of  identity  had 


186         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

electrified,  dragged  me  outside.  The  big  fool  was 
blubbering  with  sentiment. 

"This  is  frightful,"  he  grunted. 

''Atrocious!"  said  I. 

*'But  she  is  a  woman  in  a  million." 

"She  is  a  great  actress,"  I  said  reverently. 

"I  could  never  approve  the  marriage,"  he  fal- 
tered.   "What  do  you  think?" 

"Out  of  the  question!  I  have  no  sympathy 
with  either  of  them." 

"You  humbug!  Why,  there  is  a  tear  running 
down  your  nose!" 

"There  are  two  running  down  yours,"  I 
snapped;  "a  General  should  know  better," 

And  why  has  the  doll  in  the  pink  silk  dress  re- 
called this  to  me?  Well,  you  see,  to-morrow  will 
be  New  Year's  Day  and  the  doll  is  a  gift  for  my 
godchild — and  the  name  of  my  godchild's  mother 
is  "Jeanne  de  Lavardens."  Oh,  I  have  nothing 
to  say  against  her  as  a  mother,  the  children 
idoHse  her!  I  admit  that  she  has  conquered  the 
General,  and  that  Georges  is  the  proudest  hus- 
band in  France.  But  when  I  think  of  the  parts  I 
could  have  written  for  her,  of  the  lustre  the  stage 
has  lost,  when  I  reflect  that,  just  to  be  divinely 
happy,  the  woman  deliberately  declined  a  world- 
wide fame — Morbleu!  I  can  never  forgive  her 
for  it,  never — ^the  darling! 


THE  LAST  EFFECT 

Jean  Bourjac  was  old  and  lazy.  Why  should 
he  work  any  more?  In  his  little  cottage  he  was 
content  enough.  If  the  place  was  not  precisely 
gay,  could  he  not  reach  Paris  for  a  small  sum? 
And  if  he  had  no  neighbours  to  chat  with  across 
the  wall,  weren't  there  his  flowers  to  tend  in 
the  garden?  Occasionally — because  one  cannot 
shake  off  the  interests  of  a  lifetime — he  indulged 
in  an  evening  at  the  Folies-Bergere,  or  Olympia, 
curious  to  witness  some  Illusion  that  had  made 
a  hit. 

At  such  times  old  Bourjac  would  chuckle  and 
wag  his  head  sagely,  for  he  saw  no  Illusions  now 
to  compare  with  those  invented  by  himself  when 
he  was  in  the  business. 

And  there  were  many  persons  who  admitted 
that  he  had  been  supreme  in  his  line.  At  the 
Folies-Bergere  he  was  often  recognised  and 
addressed  as  ''Maitre." 

One  summer  evening,  when  old  Bourjac  sat 
reading  Le  Journal,  Margot,  the  housekeeper, 
who  had  grown  deaf  and  ancient  in  his  service, 
announced  a  stranger. 

187 


188         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

She  was  a  girl  with  a  delicate  oval  face,  and 
eyes  like  an  angel's. 

**Monsieur  Bourjac,"  she  began,  as  if  reciting 
a  speech  that  she  had  studied,  "I  have  come  out 
here  to  beg  a  favour  of  you.  I  thirst  for  a  career 
behind  the  footlights.  Alas!  I  cannot  sing,  or 
dance,  or  act.  There  is  only  one  chance  for  me 
— to  possess  an  Illusion  that  shall  take  Paris  by 
storm.  I  am  told  that  there  is  nothing  produced 
to-day  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  the  former  'Miracles 
Bourjac'  Will  you  help  me?  Will  you  design 
for  me  the  most  wonderful  Illusion  of  your  life?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Bourjac,  with  a  shrug, 
"I  have  retired." 

"I  implore  you!"  she  urged.  "But  I  have  not 
finished;  I  am  poor,  I  am  employed  at  a  mil- 
liner's, I  could  not  pay  down  a  single  franc.  My 
offer  is  a  share  of  my  salary  as  a  star.  I  am  mad 
for  the  stage.  It  is  not  the  money  that  I  crave 
for,  but  the  applause.  I  would  not  grudge  you 
even  half  my  salary !  Oh,  monsieur,  it  is  in  your 
power  to  lift  me  from  despair  into  paradise.  Say 
you  consent." 

Bourjac  mused.  Her  offer  was  very  funny;  if 
she  had  been  of  the  ordinary  type,  he  would  have 
sent  her  packing,  with  a  few  commercial  home- 
truths.  Excitement  had  brought  a  flush  to  the 
oval  face,  her  glorious  eyes  awoke  in  him  emo- 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  189 

tions  which  he  had  beheved  extinct.  She  was  so 
captivating  that  he  cast  about  him  for  phrases 
to  prolong  the  interview.  Though  he  could  not 
agree,  he  didn't  want  her  to  go  yet. 

And  when  she  did  rise  at  last,  he  murmured, 
"Well,  well,  see  me  again  and  we  will  talk  about 
it.    I  have  no  wish  to  be  hard,  you  understand." 

Her  name  was  Laure.  She  was  in  love  with  a 
conjurer,  a  common,  flashy  fellow,  who  gave  his 
mediocre  exhibitions  of  legerdemain  at  such 
places  as  Le  Jardin  Exterieur,  and  had  recently 
come  to  lodge  at  her  mother's.  She  aspired  to 
marry  him,  but  did  not  dare  to  expect  it.  Her 
homage  was  very  palpable,  and  monsieur  Eugene 
Legrand,  who  had  no  matrimonial  intentions, 
would  often  wish  that  the  old  woman  did  not  keep 
such  a  sharp  eye  upon  her. 

Needless  to  say,  Bourjac's  semi-promise  sent 
her  home  enraptured.  She  had  gone  to  him  on 
impulse,  without  giving  her  courage  time  to  take 
flight;  now,  in  looking  back,  she  wondered  at 
her  audacity,  and  that  she  had  gained  so  much 
as  she  had.  "I  have  no  wish  to  be  hard,"  he 
had  said.  Oh,  the  old  rascal  admired  her  hugely! 
If  she  coaxed  enough,  he  would  end  by  giving  in. 
What  thumping  luck!  She  determined  to  call 
upon  him  again  on  Sunday,  and  to  look  her  best. 

Bourjac,  however,  did  not  succumb  on  Sun- 


190         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

day.  Fascinating  as  he  found  her,  he  squirmed 
at  the  prospect  of  the  task  demanded  of  him. 
His  workshop  in  the  garden  had  been  closed  so 
long  that  rats  had  begun  to  regard  it  as  their 
playroom;  the  more  he  contemplated  resuming 
his  profession,  the  less  inclined  he  felt  to  do  it. 

She  paid  him  many  visits  and  he  became  deeply 
infatuated  with  her;  yet  he  continued  to  main- 
tain that  he  was  past  such  an  undertaking — ^that 
she  had  applied  to, him  too  late. 

Then,  one  day,  after  she  had  flown  into  a  pas- 
sion, and  wept,  and  been  mollified,  he  said  hesi- 
tatingly: 

"I  confess  that  an  idea  for  an  Illusion  has 
occurred  to  me,  but  I  do  not  pledge  myself  to 
execute  it.  I  should  call  it  'A  Life.'  An  empty 
cabinet  is  examined;  it  is  supported  by  four 
columns — there  is  no  stage  trap,  no  obscurity,  no 
black  velvet  curtain  concealed  in  the  dark,  to 
screen  the  operations;  the  cabinet  is  raised  high 
above  the  ground,  and  the  lights  are  full  up.  You 
understand?"  Some  of  the  inventor's  enthusiasm 
had  crept  into  his  voice.    "You  understand?" 

''Go  on,"  she  said,  holding  her  breath. 

"Listen.  The  door  of  the  cabinet  is  slammed, 
and  in  letters  of  fire  there  appears  on  it,  'Scene 
I.'  Instantly  it  flies  open  again  and  discloses 
a  baby.    The  baby  moves,  it  wails — in  fine,  it  is 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  191 

alive.  Slam!  Letters  of  fire,  'Scene  II.'  In- 
stantly the  baby  has  vanished;  in  its  place  is  a 
beautiful  girl — you !  You  smile  triumphantly  at 
your  reflection  in  a  mirror,  your  path  is  strewn 
with  roses,  the  world  is  at  your  feet.  Slam! 
'Scene  III.'  In  a  moment  twenty  years  have 
passed ;  your  hair  is  grey,  you  are  matronly,  stout, 
your  face  is  no  longer  oval ;  yet  unmistakably  it 
is  you  yourself,  the  same  woman.  Slam!  'Scene 
IV.'  You  are  enfeebled,  a  crone,  toothless,  tot- 
tering on  a  stick.  Once  more!  It  is  the  last 
effect — ^the  door  flies  open  and  reveals  a  skele- 
ton." 

"You  can  make  this?"  she  questioned. 

"I  could  make  it  if  I  chose,"  he  answered. 

"Will  you?" 

"It  depends." 

"On  what?" 

"On  you!" 

"Take  any  share  you  want,"  she  cried.  "I 
will  sign  anything  you  like !  After  all,  would  not 
the  success  be  due  to  you?" 

"So  you  begin  to  see  that?"  said  the  old  man 
drily.  "But,  I  repeat,  it  depends!  In  spite  of 
everything,  you  may  think  my  terms  too  high." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she  stammered. 

"Marry  me!"  said  Bourjac. 

He  did  not  inquire  if  she  had  any  affection  for 


19a         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

him ;  he  knew  that  if  she  said  "Yes"  it  would  be 
a  he.  But  he  adored  this  girl,  who,  of  a  truth, 
had  nothing  but  her  beauty  to  recommend  her, 
and  he  persuaded  himself  that  his  devotion  would 
evoke  tenderness  in  her  by  degrees.  She  found 
the  price  high  indeed.  Not  only  was  she  young 
enough  to  be  his  granddaughter — she  had  given 
her  fancy  to  another  man.  Immediately  she 
could  not  consent.  When  she  took  leave  of  him, 
it  was  understood  that  she  would  think  the  offer 
over;  and  she  went  home  and  let  Legrand  hear 
that  Bourjac  had  proposed  for  her  hand.  If,  by 
any  chance,  the  news  piqued  Legrand  into  doing 
likewise ? 

But  Legrand  said  nothing  to  the  point. 
Though  he  was  a  little  chagrined  by  the  intelli- 
gence, it  never  even  entered  his  mind  to  attempt 
to  cut  the  inventor  out.  How  should  it?  She 
was  certainly  an  attractive  girl,  but  as  to  marry- 
ing her He  thought  Bourjac  a  fool.     As 

for  himself,  if  he  married  at  all,  it  would  be  an 
artist  who  was  drawing  a  big  salary  and  who 
would  be  able  to  provide  him  with  some  of  the 
good  things  of  life.  "I  pray  you  will  be  very 
happy,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  putting  on  a  sen- 
timental air. 

So,  after  she  had  cried  with  mortification, 
Laura  promised  to  be  old  Bourjac's  wife. 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  193 

A.  few  weeks  later  they  were  married;  and  in 
that  lonely  little  cottage  she  would  have  been 
bored  to  death  but  for  the  tawdry  future  that  she 
foresaw.  The  man's  dream  of  awakening  her 
tenderness  was  speedily  dispelled;  he  had  been 
accepted  as  the  means  to  an  end,  and  he  was  held 
fast  to  the  compact.  She  grudged  him  every 
hour  in  which  he  idled  by  her  side.  Driven  from 
her  arms  by  her  impatience,  old  Bourjac  would 
toil  patiently  in  the  workroom :  planning,  failing 
— surmounting  obstacles  atom  by  atom,  for  the 
sake  of  a  woman  whose  sole  interest  in  his  exist- 
ence was  his  progress  with  the  Illusion  that  was 
to  gratify  her  vanity. 

He  worshipped  her  still.  If  he  had  not  wor- 
shipped her,  he  would  sooner  or  later  have  re- 
nounced the  scheme  as  impracticable;  only  his 
love  for  her  supported  him  in  the  teeth  of  the 
impediments  that  arose.  Of  these  she  heard 
nothing.  For  one  reason,  her  interest  was  so 
purely  selfish  that  she  had  not  even  wished  to 
learn  how  the  cabinet  was  to  be  constructed. 
"All  those  figures  gave  her  a  headache,"  she  de- 
clared. For  another,  when  early  in  the  winter  he 
had  o^ned  himself  at  a  deadlock,  she  had  sneered 
at  him  as  a  duffer  who  was  unable  to  fulfil  his 
boasts.    Old    Bourjac    never    forgot    that — ^his 


194         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

reputation  was  very  dear  to  him — ^he  did  not 
speak  to  her  of  his  difficulties  again. 

But  they  often  talked  of  the  success  she  was  to 
achieve.  She  liked  to  go  into  a  corner  of  the 
parlour  and  rehearse  the  entrance  that  she  would 
make  to  acknowledge  the  applause.  "It  will  be 
the  great  moment,"  she  would  say,  ''when  I  re- 
appear as  myself  and  bow." 

"No,  it  will  be  expected;  that  will  not  surprise 
anybody,"  Bourjac  would  insist.  "The  climax, 
the  last  effect,  will  be  the  skeleton!" 

It  was  the  skeleton  that  caused  him  the  most 
anxious  thought  of  all.  In  order  to  compass  it, 
he  almost  feared  that  he  would  be  compelled  to 
sacrifice  one  of  the  preceding  scenes.  The  babe, 
the  girl,  the  matron,  the  crone,  for  all  these  his 
mechanism  provided;  but  the  skeleton,  the  "last 
effect,"  baffled  his  ingenuity.  Laure  began  to 
think  his  task  eternal. 

Ever  since  the  wedding,  she  had  dilated 
proudly  to  her  mother  and  Legrand  on  her  ap- 
proaching debut,  and  it  angered  her  that  she 
could  never  say  when  the  debut  was  to  be.  Now 
that  there  need  be  no  question  of  his  marrying 
her,  Legrand's  manner  towards  her  had  become 
more  marked.  She  went  to  the  house  often.  One 
afternoon,  when  she  rang,  the  door  was  opened 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  195 

by  him;  he  explained  that  the  old  woman  was 
out  marketing. 

Laure  waited  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  conjurer 
sat  on  the  table,  talking  to  her. 

"How  goes  the  Illusion?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  big!"  she  said.  "It's  going  to  knock 
them,  I  can  tell  you!"  Her  laugh  was  rather 
derisive.  "It's  a  rum  world;  the  shop-girl  will 
become  an  artist,  with  a  show  that  draws  all 
Paris.  We  expect  to  open  at  the  Folies-Ber- 
gere."  She  knew  that  Legrand  could  never 
aspire  to  an  engagement  at  the  Folies-Bergere 
as  long  as  he  lived. 

"I  hope  you  will  make  a  hit,"  he  said,  under- 
standing her  resentment  perfectly. 

"You  did  not  foresee  me  a  star  turn,  hein?" 

He  gave  a  shrug.  "How  could  I  foresee?  If 
you  had  not  married  Bourjac,  of  course  it  would 
not  have  happened?" 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  murmured.  She  was 
sorry  he  realised  that ;  she  would  have  liked  him 
to  feel  that  she  might  have  had  the  Illusion  any- 
how, and  been  a  woman  worth  his  winning. 

"Indeed,"  added  Legrand  pensively,  rolling  a 
cigarette,  "you  have  done  a  great  deal  to  obtain 
a  success.  It  is  not  every  girl  who  would  go  to 
such  lengths." 


196         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"What  ?"    She  coloured  indignantly. 

"I  mean  it  is  not  every  girl  who  would  break 
the  heart  of  a  man  who  loved  her." 

They  looked  in  each  other's  eyes  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  turned  her  head  scornfully  away. 

"Why  do  you  talk  rot  to  me?  Do  you  take  me 
for  a  kid  r 

He  decided  that  a  pained  silence  would  be  most 
effective. 

"If  you  cared  about  me,  why  didn't  you  say 
so?"  she  flashed,  putting  the  very  question  he  had 
hoped  for. 

"Because  my  position  prevented  it,"  he  sighed. 
"I  could  not  propose,  a  poor  devil  like  me!  Do 
I  lodge  in  an  attic  from  choice?  But  you  are  the 
only  w^oman  I  ever  wanted  for  my  wife." 

After  a  pause,  she  said  softly,  "I  never  knew 
you  cared." 

"I  shall  never  care  for  anybody  else,"  he 
answered.  And  then  her  mother  came  in  with 
the  vegetables. 

It  is  easy  to  believe  what  one  wishes,  and  she 
wished  to  believe  Legrand's  protestations.  She 
began  to  pity  herself  profoundly,  feeling  that  she 
had  thrown  away  the  substance  for  the  shadow. 
In  the  sentimentality  to  which  she  yielded,  even 
the  prospect  of  being  a  star  turn  failed  to  console 
her ;  and  during  the  next  few  weeks  she  invented 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  1971 

reasons  for  visiting  at  her  mother's  more  fre- 
quently than  ever. 

After  these  visits,  Legrand  used  to  smirk  to 
himself  in  his  attic.  He  reflected  that  the  turn 
would,  probably,  earn  a  substantial  salary  for  a 
long  time  to  come.  If  he  persuaded  her  to  run 
away  with  him  when  the  show  had  been  produced, 
it  would  be  no  bad  stroke  of  business  for  him! 
Accordingly,  in  their  conversations,  he  advised 
her  to  insist  on  the  Illusion  being  her  absolute 
property. 

"One  can  never  tell  what  may  occur,"  he 
would  say.  ''If  the  managers  arranged  with 
Bourjac,  not  with  you,  you  would  always  be 
dependent  on  your  husband's  whims  for  your 
engagements."  And,  affecting  unconsciousness 
of  his  real  meaning,  the  woman  would  reply, 
"That's  true;  yes,  I  suppose  it  would  be  best — 
yes,  I  shall  have  all  the  engagements  made  with 
mef'  ^ 

But  by  degrees  even  such  pretences  were 
dropped  between  them;  they  spoke  plainly.  He 
had  the  audacity  to  declare  that  it  tortured  him 
to  think  of  her  in  old  Bourjac's  house — old 
Bourjac  who  plodded  all  day  to  minister  to  her 
caprice!  She,  no  less  shameless,  acknowledged 
that  her  loneliness  there  was  almost  unendurable. 
So  Legrand  used  to  call  upon  her,  to  cheer  her 


198         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

solitude,  and  while  Bourjac  laboured  in  the  work- 
room, the  lovers  lolled  in  the  parlour,  and  talked 
of  the  future  they  would  enjoy  together  when  his 
job  was  done. 

"See,  monsieur — ^your  luncheon!"  mumbled 
Margot,  carrying  a  tray  into  the  workroom  on 
his  busiest  days. 

"And  madame,  has  madame  her  luncheon?" 
shouted  Bourjac.    Margot  was  very  deaf  indeed. 

"Madame  entertains  monsieur  Legrand 
again,"  returned  the  housekeeper,  who  was  not 
blind  as  well. 

Bourjac  understood  the  hint,  and  more  than 
once  he  remonstrated  with  his  wife.  But  she 
looked  in  his  eyes  and  laughed  suspicion  out  of 
him  for  the  time:  "Eugene  was  an  old  friend, 
whom  she  had  known  from  childhood!  Enfin, 
if  Jean  objected,  she  would  certainly  tell  him 
not  to  come  so  often.  It  was  very  ridiculous, 
however !" 

And  afterwards  she  said  to  Legrand,  "We 
must  put  up  with  him  in  the  meanwhile;  be 
patient,  darling!  We  shall  not  have  to  worry 
about  what  he  thinks  much  longer." 

Then,  as  if  to  incense  her  more,  Bourjac  was 
attacked  by  rheumatism  before  the  winter 
finished;  he  could  move  only  with  the  greatest 
difficulty,  and  took  to  his  bed.    Day  after  day 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  199 

he  lay  there,  and  she  fumed  at  the  sight  of  him, 
passive  under  the  blankets,  while  his  work  was 
at  a  standstill. 

More  than  ever  the  dulness  got  on  her  nerves 
now,  especially  as  Legrand  had  avoided  the  house 
altogether  since  the  complaint  about  the  fre- 
quency of  his  visits.  He  was  about  to  leave  Paris 
to  fulfil  some  engagements  in  the  provinces.  It 
occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be  a  delightful 
change  to  accompany  him  for  a  week.  She  had 
formerly  had  an  aunt  living  in  Rouen,  and  she 
told  Bourjac  that  she  had  been  invited  to  stay 
with  her  for  a  few  days. 

Bourjac  made  no  objection.  Only,  as  she 
hummed  gaily  over  her  packing,  he  turned  his 
old  face  to  the  wall  to  hide  his  tears. 

Her  luggage  was  dispatched  in  advance,  and 
by  liCgrand's  counsel,  it  was  labelled  at  the  last 
minute  with  an  assumed  name.  If  he  could  have 
done  so  without  appearing  indifferent  to  her 
society,  Legrand  would  have  dissuaded  her  from 
indulging  in  the  trip,  for  he  had  resolved  now  to 
be  most  circumspect  until  the  Illusion  was  in- 
alienably her  own.  As  it  was,  he  took  all  the  pre- 
cautions possible.  They  would  travel  separately; 
he  was  to  depart  in  the  evening,  and  Laure  would 
follow  by  the^next  train.  When  she  arrived,  he 
would  be  awaiting  her. 


200        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

With  the  removal  of  her  trunk,  her  spirits  rose 
higher  still.  But  the  day  passed  slowly.  At 
dusk  she  sauntered  about  the  sitting-room,  wish- 
ing that  it  were  time  for  her  to  start.  She  had 
not  seen  Legrand  since  the  previous  afternoon, 
when  they  had  met  at  a  cafe  to  settle  the  final 
details.  When  the  clock  struck  again,  she  reck- 
oned that  he  must  be  nearly  at  his  destination; 
perhaps  he  was  there  already,  pacing  the  room  as 
she  paced  this  one?  She  laughed.  Not  a  tinge  of 
remorse  discoloured  the  pleasure  of  her  outlook 
— her  "au  revoir"  to  her  husband  was  quite  care- 
less. The  average  woman  who  sins  longs  to  tear 
out  her  conscience  for  marring  moments  which 
would  otherwise  be  perfect.  This  woman  had 
absolutely  no  conscience. 

The  shortest  route  to  the  station  was  by  the 
garden  gate;  as  she  raised  the  latch,  she  was 
amazed  to  see  Legrand  hurriedly  approaching. 

"Thank  goodness,  I  have  caught  you!"  he  ex- 
claimed— "I  nearly  went  round  to  the  front." 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Nothing  serious;  I  am  not  going,  that  is  all 
— ^they  have  changed  my  date.  The  matter  has 
been  uncertain  all  day,  or  I  would  have  let  you 
know  earlier.  It  is  lucky  I  was  in  time  to  prevent 
your  starting." 

She  was  dumb  with  disappointment. 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  201 

"It  is  a  nuisance  about  your  luggage/Vhe  went 
on;  "we  must  telegraph  about  it.  Don't  look  so 
down  in  the  mouth — ^we  shall  have  our  trip  next 
week  instead." 

"What  am  I  to  say  to  Jean — he  will  think  it 
so  strange?    I  have  said  good-bye  to  him." 

"Oh,  you  can  find  an  excuse — you  'missed  your 
train.'  Come  out  for  half  an  hour,  and  we  can 
talk."  His  glance  fell  on  the  workroom.  "Is 
that  fastened  up?" 

"I  don't  know.  Do  you  want  to  see  what  he 
has  done?" 

"I  may  as  well."  He  had  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity before — Bourjac  had  always  been  in  there. 

"No,  it  isn't  locked,"  she  said;  "come  on  then! 
Wait  till  I  have  shut  it  after  us  before  you  strike 
a  match — Margot  might  see  the  light." 

A  rat  darted  across  their  feet  as  they  lit  the 
lamp,  and  he  dropped  the  matchbox.     "Ugh!" 

"The  beastly  things!"  she  shivered.  "Make 
haste!" 

On  the  floor  stood  a  cabinet  that  was  not  unlike 
a  gloomy  wardrobe  in  its  outward  aspect.  Le- 
grand  examined  it  curiously. 

"Too  massive,"  he  remarked.     "It  will  cost  a 

fortune  for  carriage — and  where  are  the  columns 

i  I  heard  of?"    He  stepped  inside  and  sounded  the 

walls.     "Humph,  of  course  I  see  his  idea.    The 


202        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

fake  is  a  very  old  one,  but  it  is  always  effective." 
Really,  he  knew  nothing  about  it,  but  as  he  was 
a  conjurer,  she  accepted  him  as  an  authority. 

"Show  me!  Is  there  room  for  us  both?" 
she  said,  getting  in  after  him.  And  as  she  got  in, 
the  door  slammed. 

Instantaneously  they  were  in  darkness,  black 
as  pitch,  jammed  close  together.  Their  four 
hands  flew  all  over  the  door  at  once,  but  they 
could  touch  no  handle.  The  next  moment,  some 
revolving  apparatus  that  had  been  set  in  motion, 
flung  them  oflf  their  feet.  Round  and  round  it 
swirled,  striking  against  their  bodies  and  their 
faces.  They  grovelled  to  escape  it,  but  in  that 
awful  darkness  their  efforts  were  futile;  they 
could  not  even  see  its  shape. 

"Stop  it!"  she  gasped. 

"I  don't  know  how,"  he  panted. 

After  a  few  seconds  the  whir  grew  fainter,  the 
gyrations  stopped  automatically.  She  wiped  the 
blood  from  her  face,  and  burst  into  hysterical 
weeping.  The  man,  cursing  horribly,  rapped  to 
find  the  spring  that  she  must  have  pressed  as  she 
entered.  It  seemed  to  them  both  that  there  could 
be  no  spot  he  did  not  rap  a  thousand  times,  but 
the  door  never  budged. 

His  curses  ceased ;  he  crouched  by  her,  snorting 
with  fear. 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  203 

"What  shall  we  do?"  she  muttered. 

He  did  not  answer  her. 

''Eugene,  let  us  stamp!  Perhaps  the  spring  is 
in  the  floor." 

Still  he  paid  no  heed — ^he  was  husbanding  his 
breath.  When  a  minute  had  passed,  she  felt  his 
chest  distend,  and  a  scream  broke  from  him — 

"Mon  Dieu!"  She  clutched  him,  panic- 
stricken.  "We  mustn't  be  found  here,  it  would 
ruin  everything.  Feel  for  the  spring!  Eugene, 
feel  for  the  spring,  don't  call!" 

''Helpr 

"Don't  you  understand?  Jean  will  guess^ — it 
will  be  the  end  of  my  hopes,  I  shall  have  no 
career!" 

"I  have  myself  to  think  about!"  he  whim- 
pered. And  pushing  away  her  arms,  he  screamed 
again  and  again.  But  there  was  no  one  to  hear 
him,  no  neighbours,  no  one  passing  in  the  fields — 
none  but  old  Bourjac,  and  deaf  Margot,  beyond 
earshot,  in  the  house. 

The  cabinet  was,  of  course,  ventilated,  and  the 
danger  was,  not  suffocation,  but  that  they  would 
be  jammed  here  while  they  slowly  starved  to 
death.  Soon  her  terror  of  the  fate  grew  all- 
powerful  in  the  woman,  and,  though  she  loathed 
him  for  having  been  the  first  to  call,  she,  too. 


£04f        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

shrieked  constantly  for  help  now.  By  turns, 
Legrand  would  yell,  distraught,  and  heave  him- 
self helplessly  against  the  door — ^they  were  so 
huddled  that  he  could  bring  no  force  to  bear 
upon  it. 

In  their  black,  pent  prison,  like  a  cofRn  on 
end.  the  night  held  a  hundred  hours.  The 
matchbox  lay  outside,  where  it  had  fallen,  and 
though  they  could  hear  his  watch  ticking  in  his 
pocket,  they  were  unable  to  look  at  it.  After  the 
watch  stopped,  they  lost  their  sense  of  time  alto- 
gether; they  disputed  what  day  of  the  week  it 
was. 

Their  voices  had  been  worn  to  whispers  now ; 
they  croaked  for  help. 

In  the  workroom,  the  rats  missed  the  remains 
of  old  Bourjac's  luncheons;  the  rats  squeaked 
ravenously.  .  •  .  As  she  strove  to  scream,  with 
the  voice  that  was  barely  audible,  she  felt  that 
she  could  resign  herself  to  death  were  she  but 
alone.  She  could  not  stir  a  limb  nor  draw  a  breath 
apart  from  the  man.  She  craved  at  last  less 
ardently  for  life  than  for  space — ^the  relief  of  es- 
caping, even  for  a  single  moment,  from  the 
oppression  of  contact.  It  became  horrible,  the 
contact,  as  revolting  as  if  she  had  never  loved 
him.    The  ceaseless  contact  maddened  her.    The 


THE  LAST  EFFECT  205 

quaking  of  his  body,  the  clamminess  of  his  flesh, 
the  smell  of  his  person,  poisoning  the  darkness, 
seemed  to  her  the  eternities  of  Hell. 

Bourjae  lay  awaiting  his  wife's  return  for  more 
than  a  fortnight.  Then  he  sent  for  her  mother, 
and  learnt  that  the  ''aunt  in  Rouen"  had  been 
buried  nearly  three  years. 

The  old  man  was  silent. 

''It  is  a  coincidence,"  added  the  visitor  hesitat- 
ingly, "that  monsieur  Legrand  has  also  disap- 
peared. People  are  always  ringing  my  bell  to 
inquire  where  he  is." 

As  soon  as  he  wa§  able  to  rise,  Bourjae  left  for 
Paris;  and,  as  the  shortest  route  to  the  station 
was  by  the  garden  gate,  he  passed  the  workroom 
on  his  way.  He  nodded,  thinking  of  the  time 
that  he  had  wasted  there,  but  he  did  not  go  in- 
side^ — ^he  was  too  impatient  to  find  Laure,  and, 
incidentally,  to  shoot  Legrand. 

Though  his  quest  failed,  he  never  went  back 
to  the  cottage;  he  could  not  have  borne  to  live 
in  it  now.  He  tried  to  let  it,  but  the  little  house 
was  not  everybody's  money,  and  it  stood  empty 
for  many  years ;  indeed,  before  it  was  reoccupied 
Bourjae  w^as  dead  and  forgotten. 

When  the  new  owners  planned  their  renova- 
tions, they  had  the  curiosity  to  open  a  mildewed 


206         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

cabinet  in  an  outhouse,  and  uttered  a  cry  of 
dismay.  Not  until  then  was  the  ''last  effect" 
attained ;  but  there  were  two  skeletons,  instead  of 
one. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER 

The  creators  of  Eau  d'Enfer  invited  designs 
for  a  poster  calling  the  attention  of  the  world 
to  their  liqueur's  incomparable  qualities.  It 
occurred  to  Theodose  Goujaud  that  this  was  a 
first-class  opportunity  to  demonstrate  his  genius. 

For  an  article  with  such  a  glistening  name  it 
was  obvious  that  a  poster  must  be  flamboyant — 
one  could  not  advertise  a  "Water  of  Hell"  by  a 
picture  of  a  village  maiden  plucking  cowslips — 
and  Goujaud  passed  wakeful  nights  devising  a 
sketch  worthy  of  the  subject.  He  decided  at  last 
upon  a  radiant  brunette  sharing  a  bottle  of  the 
liqueur  with  his  Satanic  Majesty  while  she  sat 
on  his  knee. 

But  where  was  the  girl  to  be  found?  Though 
his  acquaintance  v/ith  the  models  of  Paris  was  ex- 
tensive, he  could  think  of  none  with  a  face  to 
satisfy  him.  One  girl's  arms  wreathed  them- 
selves before  his  mind,  another  girl's  feet  were 
desirable,  but  the  face,  which  was  of  supreme  im- 
portance, eluded  his  most  frenzied  search. 

"Mon  Dieu,"  groaned  Goujaud,  "here  I  am 

207 


208         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

projecting  a  poster  that  would  conquer  Paris,  and 
my  scheme  is  frustrated  by  the  fact  that  Nature 
fails  to  produce  women  equal  to  the  heights  of 
my  art !  It  is  such  misfortunes  as  this  that  sup- 
port the  Morgue." 

''I  recommend  you  to  travel/'  said  Tricotrin; 
"a  tour  in  the  East  might  yield  your  heart's  de- 
Sire. 

"It's  a  valuable  suggestion,"  rejoined  Gou- 
jaud;  "I  should  like  a  couple  of  new  shirts  also, 
but  I  lack  the  money  to  acquire  them." 

"Well,"  said  Tricotrin,  "the  Ball  of  the  Wil- 
ling Hand  is  nearer.    Try  that!" 

Goujaud  looked  puzzled.  "The  Ball  of  the 
Willing  Hand?"  he  repeated;  "I  do  not  know 
any  Ball  of  the  Willing  Hand." 

"Is  it  possible?"  cried  the  poet;  "where  do  you 
live?  Why,  the  Willing  Hand,  my  recluse,  is 
the  most  fascinating  resort  in  Paris.  I  have  been 
familiar  with  it  for  fully  a  week.  It  is  a  bal  de 
barriere  where  the  criminal  classes  enjoy  their 
brief  leisure.  Every  Saturday  night  they  frisk. 
The  Cut-throats'  Quadrille  is  a  particularly 
sprightly  measure,  and  the  damsels  there  are 
often  striking." 

"And  their  escorts,  too — if  one  of  the  willing 
hands  planted  a  knife  in  my  back,  there  would  be 
no  sprightliness  about  mer 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER  209 

"In  the  interests  of  art  one  must  submit  to  a 
little  annoyance.  Come,  if  you  are  conscientious 
I  will  introduce  you  to  the  place,  and  give  you 
a  few  hints.  For  example,  the  company  have  a 
prejudice  against  collars,  and,  assuming  for  a 
moment  that  you  possessed  more  than  a  franc, 
you  would  do  well  to  leave  the  surnlus  at 
home." 

Goujaud  expanded  his  chest. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  announced  languidly, 
"I  possess  five  hundred  francs."  And  so  digni- 
fied was  his  air  that  Tricotrin  came  near  to  believ- 
ing him. 

"You  possess  five  hundred  francs?  You? 
How?  No,  such  things  do  not  occur!  Besides, 
you  mentioned  a  moment  since  that  you  were 
short  of  shirts." 

"It  is  true  that  I  am  short  of  shirts,  but,  never- 
theless, I  have  five  hundred  francs  in  my  pocket. 
It  is  like  this.  My  father,  who  is  not  artistic, 
has  always  desired  to  see  me  renounce  my  pro- 
fession and  sink  to  commerce.  Well,  I  was  at 
the  point  of  yielding — man  cannot  live  by  hope 
alone,  and  my  pictures  were  strangely  unappre- 
ciated. Then,  while  consent  trembled  on  my  lips, 
up  popped  this  Eau  d'Enfer!  T  saw  my  oppor- 
tunity, I  recognised  that,  of  all  men  in  Paris,  I 
was  the  best  qualified  to  execute  the  poster.    You 


210         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

may  divine  the  sequel?  I  addressed  my  father 
with  burning  eloquence,  I  persuaded  him  to  sup- 
ply me  with  the  means  to  wield  my  brush  for  a 
few  months  longer.  If  my  poster  succeeds,  I 
become  a  celebrity.  If  it  fails,  I  become  a  petrole 
merchant.  This  summer  decides  my  fate.  In  the 
meanwhile  I  am  a  capitalist ;  but  it  would  be  mad- 
ness for  me  to  purchase  shirts,  for  I  shall  require 
every  sou  to  support  existence  until  the  poster 
is  acclaimed." 

"You  have  a  practical  head!"  exclaimed 
Tricotrin  admiringly;  "I  foresee  that  you  will 
go  far.  Let  us  trust  that  the  Willing  Hand  will 
prove  the  ante-chamber  to  your  immortality." 

"I  have  no  faith  in  your  Willing  Hand," 
demurred  the  painter;  "the  criminal  classes  are 
not  keen  on  sitting  for  their  portraits^ — the 
process  has  unpleasant  associations  to  them. 
Think  again !  I  can  spare  half  an  hour  this  morn- 
ing. Evolve  a  further  inspiration  on  the  sub- 
ject!" 

"Do  you  imagine  I  have  nothing  to  do  but 
to  provide  you  with  a  model?  My  time  is  fully 
occupied;  I  am  engaged  upon  a  mystical  play, 
which  is  to  be  called  The  Spinster's  Prayer  or 
the  Goblin  Child's  Mother,  and  take  Paris  by 
storm.    A  propos — ^yes,  now  I  come  to  think  of 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER  211 

it,  there  is  something  in  Comoedia  there  that 
might  suit  you." 

''My  preserver!"  returned  Goujaud.  "What 
is  it?" 

Trieotrin  picked  the  paper  up  and  read: 

WANTED:  A  Hundred  Ladies  for  the  Stage. — 
Beauty  more  essential  than  talent.  No  dilapidations  need 
apply.     Agence  Lavalette,  rue  Baba^  Thursday,  12  to  5. 

"Mon  Dieu !  Now  you  are  beginning  to  talk," 
said  Goujaud.    "A  hundred!    One  among  them 

should  be  suitable,  hein?    But,  all  the  same " 

He  hesitated.  "  'Twelve  to  five'!  It  will  be  a 
shade  monotonous  standing  on  a  doorstep  from 
twelve  to  five,  especially  if  the  rain  streams." 

"Do  you  expect  a  Cleopatra  to  call  at  your 
attic,  or  to  send  an  eighty  horse-power  auto- 
mobile, that  you  may  cast  your  eye  over  her? 
Anyhow,  there  may  be  a  cafe  opposite ;  you  can 
order  a  bock  on  the  terrace,  and  make  it  last." 

"You  are  right.  I  shall  go  and  inspect  the 
spot  at  once.  A  hundred  beauties!  I  declare 
the  advertisement  might  have  been  framed  to 
meet  my  wants.  How  fortunate  that  you  chanced 
to  see  it !  To-morrow  evening  you  shall  hear  the 
result — dine  with  me  at  the  Bel  Avenir  at  eight 
o'clock.    For  one  occasion  I  undertake  to  go  a 


212         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

buster,  I  should  be  lacking  in  gratitude  if  I  neg- 
lected to  stuff  you  to  the  brim." 

"Oh,  my  dear  chap!"  said  Tricotrin.  "The 
invitation  is  a  godsend,  I  have  not  viewed  the 
inside  of  a  restaurant  for  a  week.  While  our 
pal  Pitou  is  banqueting  with  his  progenitors  in 
Chartres,  /  have  even  exhausted  my  influence 
with  the  fishmonger — I  did  not  so  much  as  see 
my  way  to  a  nocturnal  herring  in  the  garret. 
Mind  you  are  not  late.  I  shall  come  prepared 
to  do  justice  to  your  hospitality,  I  promise  you." 

"Right,  cocky!"  said  the  artist.  And  he  set 
forth,  in  high  spirits,  to  investigate  the  rue  Baba. 

He  was  gratified  to  discover  a  cafe  in  con- 
venient proximity  to  the  office.  And  twelve 
o'clock  had  not  sounded  next  day  when  he  took 
a  seat  at  one  of  the  little  white-topped  tables, 
his  gaze  bent  attentively  upon  the  agent's  step. 

For  the  earliest  arrival  he  had  not  long  to  wait. 
A  dumpy  girl  with  an  enormous  nose  approached, 
swinging  her  sac  a  main.  She  cast  a  complacent 
glance  at  the  name  on  the  door,  opened  the  bag, 
whipped  out  a  powder-puff,  and  vanished. 

"Morbleu!"  thought  the  painter.  "If  she  is  a 
fair  sample,  I  have  squandered  the  price  of  a 
bock!"  He  remained  in  a  state  of  depression  for 
two  or  three  minutes,  and  then  the  girl  reap- 
peared, evidently  in  a  very  bad  temper. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER  213 

"Ah!"  he  mused,  rubbing  his  hands.  "Mon- 
sieur Lavalette  is  plainly  a  person  of  his  word. 
No  beauty,  no  engagement !  This  is  going  to  be 
all  right.  Where  is  the  next  applicant?  A  sip 
to  Venus!" 

Venus,  however,  did  not  irradiate  the  street 
yet.  The  second  young  woman  was  too  short 
in  the  back,  and  at  sight  of  her  features  he 
shook  his  head  despondently.  "No  good,  my 
dear,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Little  as  you  suspect 
it,  there  is  a  disappointment  for  you  inside,  word 
of  honour !  Within  three  minutes,  I  shall  behold 
you  again," 

And,  sure  enough,  she  made  her  exit  promptly, 
looking  as  angry  as  the  other. 

"I  am  becoming  a  dramatic  prophet!"  solilo- 
quised Goujaud;  "if  I  had  nothing  more  vital  to 
do,  I  might  win  drinks,  betting  on  their  chances, 
with  the  proprietor  of  the  cafe.  However,  I 
grow  impatient  for  the  bevy  of  beauty — ^it  is  a 
long  time  on  the  road." 

As  if  in  obedience  to  his  demand,  girls  now 
began  to  trip  into  the  rue  Baba  so  rapidly  that 
he  was  kept  busy  regarding  them.  By  twos,  and 
threes,  and  in  quartettes  they  tripped — tall  girls, 
little  girls,  plain  girls,  pretty  girls,  girls  shabby, 
and  girls  chic.  But  though  many  of  them  would 
have  made  agreeable  partners  at  a  dance,  there 


214         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

was  none  who  possessed  the  necessary  quahfica- 
tions  for  The  Girl  on  Satan's  Knee.  He  rolled 
a  cigarette,  and  blew  a  pessimistic  puff.  "An- 
other day  lost!"  groaned  Goujaud.  "All  is  over, 
I  feel  it.  Posterity  will  never  praise  my  poster, 
the  clutch  of  Commerce  is  upon  me — already  the 
smell  of  the  petrole  is  in  my  nostrils !" 

And  scarcely  had  he  said  it  when  his  senses 
reeled. 

For,  stepping  from  a  cab,  disdainfully,  im- 
perially, was  his  Ideal.  Her  hair,  revealing  the 
lobes  of  the  daintiest  ears  that  ever  listened  to 
confessions  of  love,  had  the  gleam  of  purple 
grapes.  Her  eyes  were  a  mystery,  her  mouth 
was  a  flower,  her  neck  was  an  intoxication.  So 
violently  was  the  artist  affected  that,  during 
several  moments,  he  forgot  his  motive  for  being 
there.  To  be  privileged  merely  to  contemplate 
her  was  an  ecstasy.  While  he  sat  transfixed  with 
admiration,  her  dainty  foot  graced  the  agent's 
step,  and  she  entered. 

Goujaud  caught  his  breath,  and  rose.  The  cab 
had  been  discharged.  Dared  he  speak  to  her 
when  she  came  out?  It  would  be  a  different  thing 
altogether  from  speaking  to  the  kind  of  girl 
that  he  had  foreseen.  But  to  miss  such  a  model 
for  lack  of  nerve,  that  would  be  the  regret  of  a 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER  215 

lifetime!  Now  the  prospect  of  the  poster  over- 
whehned  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  would  risk  any 
rebuff,  commit  any  madness  to  induce  her  to 
"sit." 

The  estimate  that  he  had,  by  this  time,  formed 
of  monsieur  Lavalette's  taste  convinced  him  that 
her  return  would  not  be  yet.  He  sauntered  to 
and  fro,  composing  a  prehminary  and  winning 
phrase.  What  was  his  surprise,  after  a  very  few 
seconds,  to  see  that  she  had  come  out  already, 
and  was  hastening  away ! 

He  overtook  her  in  a  dozen  strides,  and  with 
a  bow  that  was  eloquent  of  his  homage,  ex- 
claimed : 

"Mademoiselle!" 

"Hein?"  she  said,  turning.  "Oh,  it's  all  right 
— ^there  are  too  many  people  there ;  I've  changed 
my  mind,  I  shan't  wait." 

He  understood  that  she  took  him  for  a  minion 
of  the  agent's,  and  he  hesitated  whether  to  correct 
her  mistake  immediately.  However,  candour 
seemed  the  better  course. 

"I  do  not  bring  a  message  from  monsieur 
Lavalette,  mademoiselle,"  he  explained. 

"No?" 

"No." 

"What  then?" 


216         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

''I  have  ventured  to  address  you  on  my  own 
account — on  a  matter  of  the  most  urgent  impor- 
tance." 

"I  have  no  small  change,"  she  said  curtly, 
making  to  pass. 

"Mademoiselle!"  His  outraged  dignity  was 
superb.  ''You  mistake  me  first  for  an  office- 
boy,  and  then  for  a  beggar.  I  am  a  man  of 
means,  though  my  costume  may  be  unconven- 
tional.   My  name  is  Theodose  Goujaud." 

Her  bow  intimated  that  the  name  was  not 
significant;  but  her  exquisite  eyes  had  softened 
at  the  reference  to  his  means. 

'Tor  weeks  I  have  been  seeking  a  face  for  a 
picture  that  I  have  conceived,"  he  went  on;  "a 
face  of  such  peculiar  beauty  that  I  despaired  of 
finding  it!  I  had  the  joy  to  see  you  enter  the 
agency,  and  I  waited,  trembling  with  the  prayer 
that  I  might  persuade  you  to  come  to  my  aid. 
Mademoiselle,  will  you  do  me  the  honour  to  allow 
me  to  reproduce  the  magic  of  your  features  on  my 
canvas?  I  entreat  it  of  you  in  the  sacred  name 
of  Art!" 

During  this  appeal,  the  lady's  demeanour  had 
softened  more  still.  A  faint  smile  hovered  on 
her  lips ;  her  gaze  was  half  gratified,  half  amused. 

"Oh,  you're  a  painter?"  she  said;  "you  want 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER  ^17 

me  to  sit  to  you  for  the  Salon?  I  don't  know, 
I'm  sure." 

"It  is  not  precisely  for  the  Salon,"  he  acknowl- 
edged. ''But  I  am  absorbed  by  the  scheme — 
it  will  be  the  crown  of  my  career.  I  will  explain. 
It  is  a  long  story.    If— if  we  could  sit  down?" 

"Where?" 

"There  appears  to  be  a  cafe  close  to  the 
agency,"  said  Goujaud  timidly. 

"Oh!"  She  dismissed  the  cafe's  pretensions 
with  her  eyebrows. 

"You  are  right,"  he  stammered.  "Now  that  I 
look  at  it  again,  I  see  that  it  is  quite  a  common 
place.  Well,  will  you  permit  me  to  walk  a  little 
way  with  you?" 

"We  will  go  to  breakfast  at  Armenonville,  if 
you  like,"  she  said  graciously,  "where  you  can  ex- 
plain to  me  at  your  leisure." 

It  seemed  to  Goujaud  that  his  heart  dropped 
into  his  stomach  and  turned  to  a  cannon-ball 
there.  Armenonville?  What  would  such  a 
breakfast  cost?  Perhaps  a  couple  of  louis? 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  contemplated  breakfast- 
ing at  Armenonville. 

She  smiled,  as  if  taking  his  consent  for  granted. 
Her  loveliness  and  air  of  fashion  confused  him 
dreadfully.    And  if  he  made  excuses,  there  would 


218         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

be  no  poster!  Oh,  he  must  seize  the  chance  at 
any  price! 

"Oh  course — I  shall  be  enchanted/'  he  mum- 
bled. And  before  he  half  realised  that  the  un- 
precedented thing  had  happened  they  were  rat- 
tling away,  side  by  side  in  a  fiacre. 

It  was  astounding,  it  was  breathless,  it  was  an 
episode  out  of  a  novel!  But  Goujaud  felt  too 
sick,  in  thinking  of  the  appalling  expense,  to 
enjoy  his  sudden  glory.  Accustomed  to  a  couple 
of  louis  providing  meals  for  three  weeks,  he  was 
stupefied  by  the  imminence  of  scattering  the  sum 
in  a  brief  half -hour.  Even  the  cab  fare  weighed 
upon  him;  he  not  infrequently  envied  the  occu- 
pants of  omnibuses. 

It  was  clear  that  the  lady  herself  was  no 
stranger  to  the  restaurant.  While  he  blinked  be- 
wildered on  the  threshold,  she  was  referring  to 
her  "pet  table,"  and  calling  a  waiter  "Jules." 
The  menu  was  a  fresh  embarrassment  to  the 
bohemian,  but  she,  and  the  deferential  waiter, 
relieved  him  of  that  speedily,  and  in  five  minutes 
an  epicurean  luncheon  had  been  ordered,  and  he 
was  gulping  champagne. 

It  revived  his  spirits.  Since  he  had  tumbled 
into  the  adventure  of  his  life,  by  all  means  let  him 
savour  the  full  flavour  of  it!    His  companion's 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER  219 

smiles  had  become  more  frequent,  her  eyes  were 
more  transcendental  still. 

''How  funnily  things  happen!"  she  remarked 
presently.  "I  had  not  the  least  idea  of  calUng 
on  Lavalette  when  I  got  up  this  morning.  If  I 
had  not  had  a  tiff  with  somebody,  and  decided  to 
go  on  the  stage  to  spite  him,  I  should  never  have 
met  you." 

"Oh,  you  are  not  on  the  stage  yet,  then?" 

"No.  But  I  have  often  thought  about  it,  and 
the  quarrel  determined  me.  So  I  jumped  into  a 
cab,  drove  off,  and  then — well,  there  was  such  a 
crowd  of  girls  there,  and  they  looked  so  vulgar; 
I  changed  my  mind." 

"Can  an  angel  quarrel?"  demanded  Goujaud 
sentimentally.  "I  cannot  imagine  you  saying  an 
angry  word  to  anyone." 

"Oh!"  she  laughed.  "Can't  I,  though!  I'm  a 
regular  demon  when  I'm  cross.  People  shouldn't 
vex  me." 

"Certainly  not,"  he  agreed.  "And  no  one  but 
a  brute  would  do  so.  Besides,  some  women  are 
attractive  even  in  a  rage.  On  the  whole,  I  think 
I  should  like  to  see  you  in  a  rage  with  me^  pro- 
viding always  that  you  'made  it  up'  as  nicely  as 
I  should  wish." 

"Do  you  fancy  that  I  could?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing at  the  table-cloth. 


220         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"My  head  swims,  in  fancying!" 

Her  laughter  rippled  again,  and  her  fascina- 
tion was  so  intense  that  the  poor  fellow  could 
scarcely  taste  a  mouthful  of  his  unique  repast. 
"Talk  to  me,"  she  commanded,  "sensibly  I  mean! 
Where  do  you  live?" 

"I  am  living  in  the  rue  Ravignan." 

"The  rue  Ravignan?    Where  is  that?" 

"Montmartre." 

"Oh,  really?"  She  seemed  chilled.  "It  is  not 
a  very  nice  quarter  in  the  daytime,  is  it?" 

"My  studio  suits  me,"  murmured  Goujaud, 
perceiving  his  fall  in  her  esteem.  "For  that  rea- 
son I  am  reluctant  to  remove.  An  artist  becomes 
very  much  attached  to  his  studio.  And  what  do 
I  care  for  fashion,  I?  You  may  judge  by  my 
coat!" 

"You're  eccentric,  aren't  you?" 

"Hitherto  I  have  lived  only  for  Art.  But  now 
I  begin  to  realise  that  there  may  be  something 
more  potent  and  absorbing  still." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Love!"  added  Goujaud,  feeling  himself  the 
embodiment  of  all  the  heroes  of  romance. 

"Oh?"  Her  glance  mocked,  encouraged.  "I 
am  dying  to  hear  about  your  picture,  though! 
What  is  the  subject?" 

"It  is  not  exactly  what  you  mean  by  a  'pic- 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER  221 

ture.'  "  He  fiddled  with  his  glass.  "It  is,  in 
fact,  a  poster  that  I  project." 

"A  poster?"  she  exclaimed.  "And  you  ask  me 
to — oh,  no,  I  couldn't  possibly!" 

"Mademoiselle!" 

"I  really  don't  think  I  could.  A  poster?  Ah, 
no!" 

"To  save  me!"  he  implored.  "Because  my 
whole  life  depends  on  your  decision!" 

"How  can  a  poster  matter  so  much  to  you? 
The  proposal  is  absurd."  She  regarded  her 
peche  Melba  with  a  frown. 

"If  you  think  of  becoming  an  actress,  remem- 
ber what  a  splendid  advertisement  it  would  be!" 
he  urged  feverishly. 

"Oh,  flute!"    But  she  had  wavered  at  that. 

"All  Paris  would  flock  to  your  debut.  They 
would  go  saying,  'Can  she  be  as  beautiful  as  her 
portrait?'  And  they  would  come  back  saying, 
'She  is  lovelier  still!'  Let  me  give  you  some  more 
wine." 

"No  more;  I'll  have  coffee,  and  a  grand  mar- 
nier — red." 

"Doubtless  the  more  expensive  colour!"  re- 
flected Goujaud.  But  the  time  had  passed  for 
dwelling  on  minor  troubles.  "Listen,"  he  re- 
sumed; "I  shall  tell  you  my  history.  You  will 
then  realise  to  what  an  abyss  of  despair  your 


22S         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

refusal  will  plunge  me — ^to  what  eflfulgent  heights 
I  may  be  raised  by  your  consent.  You  cannot  be 
marble!    My  father " 

"Indeed,  I  am  not  marble/'  she  put  in.  "I  am 
instinct  with  sensibility — it  is  my  great  weak- 
ness." 

"So  much  the  better.  Be  weak  to  me.  My 
father " 

"Oh,  let  us  get  out  of  this  first!"  she  suggested. 
"You  can  talk  to  me  as  we  drive." 

And  the  attentive  Jules  presented  the  dis- 
creetly folded  bill. 

For  fully  thirty  seconds  the  Pavilion  d'Ar- 
menonville  swirled  round  the  unfortunate  painter 
so  violently  that  he  felt  as  if  he  were  on  a  round- 
about at  a  fair.  He  feared  that  the  siren  must 
hear  the  pounding  of  his  heart.  To  think  that 
he  had  dreaded  paying  two  louis!  Two  louis? 
Why,  it  would  have  been  a  bagatelle!  Speech- 
lessly he  laid  a  fortune  on  the  salver.  With  a 
culminating  burst  of  recklessness  he  waved  four 
francs  towards  ^ules,  and  remarked  that  that 
personage  eyed  the  tip  with  cold  displeasure. 
"What  a  lucrative  career,  a  waiter's!"  moaned 
the  artist;  "he  turns  up  his  nose  at  four  francs!" 

Well,  he  had  speculated  too  heavily  to  accept 
defeat  now !  Bracing  himself  for  the  effort,  Gou- 
jaud  besought  the  lady's  help  with  such  a  flood  of 


AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER  2^3 

blandishment  during  the  drive  that  more  than 
once  she  seemed  at  the  point  of  yielding.  Only 
one  difficult  detail  had  he  withheld — ^that  he 
wished  to  pose  her  on  the  knee  of  Mephistopheles 
— and  to  propitiate  her  further,  before  breaking 
the  news,  he  stopped  the  cab  at  a  florist's. 

She  was  so  good-humoured  and  tractable  after 
the  florist  had  pillaged  him  that  he  could  scarcely 
be  callous  when  she  showed  him  that  she  had  split 
her  glove.  But,  to  this  day,  he  protests  that,  until 
the  glove-shop  had  been  entered,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  pre- 
sent her  with  more  than  one  pair.  As  they  came 
out — Goujaud  moving  beside  her  like  a  man  in  a 
trance — she  gave  a  faint  start. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  muttered.  "There's  my 
friend — he  has  seen  us — I  must  speak  to  him,  or 
he  will  think  I  am  doing  wrong.  Wait  a  min- 
ute !"  And  a  dandy,  with  a  monocle,  was,  indeed, 
casting  very  supercilious  glances  at  the  painter. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  monsieur  Trico- 
trin,  with  a  prodigious  appetite,  sat  in  the  Cafe 
du  Bel  Avenir,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  his  host. 
When  impatience  was  mastering  him,  there  ar- 
rived, instead,  a  petit  bleu.  The  impecunious 
poet  took  it  from  the  proprietress,  paling,  and 
read : 

"I  discovered  my  Ideal — she  ruined,  and  then 


SM         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

deserted  me !  To-morrow  there  will  be  a  painter 
the  less,  and  a  petrole  merchant  the  more.  Par- 
don my  non-appearance — I  am  spending  my  last 
sous  on  this  message." 

"Monsieur  will  give  his  order  now?"  inquired 
the  proprietress. 

"Er — thank  you,  I  do  not  dine  to-night,"  said 
Trieotrin. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS 


In  the  summer  of  the  memorable  year 


but  the  date  doesn't  matter,  Robichon  and  Quin- 
quart  both  paid  court  to  mademoiselle  Brouette. 
Mademoiselle  Brouette  was  a  captivating  actress, 
Robichon  and  Quinquart  were  the  most  comic  of 
comedians,  and  all  three  were  members  of  the 
Theatre  Supreme. 

Robichon  was  such  an  idol  of  the  public's  that 
they  used  to  laugh  before  he  uttered  the  first 
word  of  his  role;  and  Quinquart  was  so  vastly 
popular  that  his  silence  threw  the  audience  into 
convulsions. 

Professional  rivalry  apart,  the  two  were  good 
friends,  although  they  were  suitors  for  the  same 
lady,  and  this  was  doubtless  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  lady  favoured  the  robust  Robichon  no  more 
than  she  favoured  the  skinny  Quinquart.  She 
flirted  with  them  equally,  she  approved  them 
equally — and  at  last,  when  each  of  them  had 
plagued  her  beyond  endurance,  she  promised  in 
a  pet  that  she  would  marry  the  one  that  was  the 
better  actor. 

Tiens !    Not  a  player  on  the  stage,  not  a  critic 

225 


^26         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD    % 

on  the  Press  could  quite  make  up  his  mind  which 
the  better  actor  was.  Only  Suzanne  Brouette 
could  have  said  anything  so  tantalising. 

"But  how  shall  we  decide  the  point,  Suzanne?" 
stammered  Robichon  helplessly.  ''Whose  pro- 
nouncement will  you  accept?" 

"How  can  the  question  be  settled?"  queried 
Quinquart,  dismayed.  "Who  shall  be  the 
judge?" 

"Paris  shall  be  the  judge,"  affirmed  Suzanne. 
^'We  are  the  servants  of  the  public — I  w^ill  take 
the  public's  word!" 

Of  course  she  was  as  pretty  as  a  picture,  or  she 
couldn't  have  done  these  things. 

Then  poor  Quinquart  withdrew,  plunged  in 
reverie.  So  did  Robichon.  Quinquart  reflected 
that  she  had  been  talking  through  her  expensive 
hat.  Robichon  was  of  the  same  opinion.  The 
public  lauded  them  both,  was  no  less  generous 
to  one  than  to  the  other — ^to  wait  for  the  judg- 
ment of  Paris  appeared  equivalent  to  postponing 
the  matter  sine  die.  No  way  out  presented  itself 
to  Quinquart.    None  occurred  to  R^obichon. 

"Mon  vieux,"  said  the  latter,  as  they  sat  on 
the  terrace  of  their  favourite  cafe  a  day  or  two 
before  the  annual  vacation,  "let  us  discuss  this 
amicably.  Have  a  cigarette !  You  are  an  actor, 
therefore  you  consider  yourself  more  talented 


^       THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS  227 

than  I.  I,  too,  am  an  actor,  therefore  I  regard 
you  as  less  gifted  than  myself.  So  much  for  our 
artistic  standpoints !  But  we  are  also  men  of  the 
world,  and  it  must  be  obvious  to  both  of  us  that 
we  might  go  on  being  funny  until  we  reached  our 
death-beds  without  demonstrating  the  supremacy 
of  either.  Enfin,  our  only  hope  lies  in  versa- 
tility— the  conqueror  must  distinguish  himself  in 
a  solemn  part!"  He  viewed  the  other  with  com- 
placence, for  the  quaint  Quinquart  had  been 
designed  for  a  droll  by  Nature. 

"Right!"  said  Quinquart.  He  contemplated 
his  colleague  with  satisfaction,  for  it  was  impos- 
sible to  fancy  the  fat  Robichon  in  tragedy. 

"I  perceive  only  one  drawback  to  the  plan," 
continued  Robichon,  "the  Management  will  never 
consent  to  accord  ug  a  chance.  Is  it  not  always 
so  in  the  theatre?  One  succeeds  in  a  certain  line 
of  business  and  one  must  be  resigned  to  play  that 
line  as  long  as  one  lives.  If  my  earliest  success 
had  been  scored  as  a  villain  of  melodrama,  it 
would  be  believed  that  I  was  competent  to  enact 
nothing  but  villains  of  melodrama;  it  happened 
that  I  made  a  hit  as  a  comedian,  wherefore  no- 
body will  credit  that  I  am  capable  of  anything 
but  being  comic." 

"Same  here!"  concurred  Quinquart.  "Well, 
then,  what  do  you  propose?" 


228        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD    ^ 

Robichon  mused.  '^Since  we  shall  not  be  al- 
lowed to  do  ourselves  justice  on  the  stage,  we 
must  find  an  opportunity  off  it  1" 

"A  private  performance?  Good!  Yet,  if  it 
is  a  private  performance,  how  is  Paris  to  be  the 
ijudge?" 

"Ah,"  murmured  Robichon,  ^'that  is  certainly 
a  stumbling-block." 

They  sipped  their  aperitifs  moodily.  Many 
heads  were  turned  towards  the  little  table  where 
they  sat.  ''There  are  Quinquart  and  Robichon, 
how  amusing  they  always  are!"  said  passers-by, 
little  guessing  the  anxiety  at  the  laughter- 
makers'  hearts. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  sighed  Quinquart  at 
last. 

Robichon  shrugged  his  fat  shoulders,  with  a 
frown. 

Both  were  too  absorbed  to  notice  that,  after 
a  glance  of  recognition,  one  of  the  pedestrians 
had  paused,  and  was  still  regarding  them  irreso- 
lutely. He  was  a  tall,  burly  man,  habited  in 
rusty  black,  and  the  next  moment,  as  if  finding 
courage,  he  stepped  forward  and  spoke: 

"Gentlemen,  I  ask  pardon  for  the  liberty  I 
take — ^impulse  urges  me  to  seek  your  profes- 
sional advice!    I  am  in  a  position  to  pay  a  mod- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS  229 

erate  fee.  Will  you  permit  me  to  explain  my- 
self?" 

^'Monsieur,"  returned  Robichon,  "we  are  in 
deep  consideration  of  our  latest  parts.  We  shall 
be  pleased  to  give  you  our  attention  at  some  other 
time." 

"Alas!"  persisted  ]the  newcomer,  "with  me  time 
presses.  I,  too,  am  considering  my  latest  part — 
and  it  will  be  the  only  speaking  part  I  have  ever 
played,  though  I  have  been  'appearing'  for 
twenty  years." 

"What?  You  have  been  a  super  for  twenty 
years?"  said  Quinquart,  with  a  grimace. 

"No,  monsieur,"  replied  the  stranger  grimly. 
"I  have  been  the  public  executioner;  and  I  am 
going  to  lecture  on  the  horrors  of  the  post  I  have 
resigned." 

The  two  comedians  stared  at  him  aghast. 
Across  the  sunlit  terrace  seemed  to  have  fallen 
the  black  shadow  of  the  guillotine. 

"I  am  Jacques  Roux,"  the  man  went  on.  "I 
am  'trying  it  on  the  dog'  at  Appeville-sous-Bois 
next  week,  and  I  have  what  you  gentlemen  call 
'stage  fright' — I,  who  never  knew  what  nervous- 
ness meant  before !  Is  it  not  queer?  As  often  as 
I  rehearse  walking  on  to  the  platform,  I  feel 
myself  to  be  all  arms  and  legs — I  don't  know 


230         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

what  to  do  with  them.  Formerly,  I  scarcely  re- 
membered my  arms  and  legs ;  but,  of  course,  my 
attention  used  to  be  engaged  by  the  other  fellow's 
head.  Well,  it  struck  me  that  you  might  consent 
to  give  me  a  few  hints  in  deportment.  Probably 
one  lesson  would  suffice." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Robichon.  "Why  did  you 
abandon  your  official  position?" 

"Because  I  awakened  to  the  truth,"  Roux 
answered.  "I  no  longer  agree  with  capital  pun- 
ishment; it  is  a  crime  that  should  be  abolished." 

"The  scruples  of  conscience,  hein?" 

"That  is  it." 

"Fine !"  said  Robichon.  "What  dramatic  lines 
such  a  lecture  might  contain!  And  of  what  is  it 
to  consist?" 

"It  is  to  consist  of  the  history  of  my  life — ^my 
youth,  my  poverty,  my  experiences  as  Execu- 
tioner, and  my  remorse," 

■'Magnificent!"  said  Robichon.  "The  spectres 
of  your  victims  pursue  you  even  to  the  platform. 
Your  voice  fails  you,  your  eyes  start  from  your 
head  in  terror.  You  gasp  for  mercy — and  im- 
agination splashes  your  outstretched  hands  with 
gore.  The  audience  thrill,  women  swoon,  strong 
men  are  breathless  with  emotion."  Suddenly  he 
smote  the  table  with  his  big  fist,  and  little  Quin- 
quart  nearly  fell  off  his  chair,  for  he  divined  the 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS  231 

inspiration  of  his  rival.  "Listen!"  cried  Robi- 
chon,  "are  you  known  at  Appeville-sous-Bois?" 

"My  name  is  known,  yes." 

"Bah !  I  mean  are  you  known  personally,  have 
you  acquaintances  there?" 

"Oh,  no.    But  why?" 

"There  will  be  nobody  to  recognize  you?" 

"It  is  very  unlikely  in  such  a  place." 

"What  do  you  estimate  that  your  profits  will 
amount  to?" 

"It  is  only  a  small  hall,  and  the  prices  are 
very  cheap.  Perhaps  two  hundred  and  fifty 
francs." 

"And  you  are  nervous,  you  would  like  to  post- 
pone your  debut?" 

"I  should  not  be  sorry,  I  admit.  But,  again, 
why?" 

"I  will  tell  you  why — I  offer  you  five  hundred 
francs  to  let  me  take  your  place!" 

"Monsieur!" 

"Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"I  do  not  understand!" 

"I  have  a  whim  to  figure  in  a  solemn  part. 
You  can  explain  next  day  that  you  missed  your 
train — that  you  were  ill,  there  are  a  dozen  ex- 
planations that  can  be  made ;  you  will  not  be  sup- 
posed to  know  that  I  personated  you — the  re- 
sponsibility for  that  is  mine.  What  do  you  say?'* 


232         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

''It  is  worth  double  the  money,"  demurred  the 
man. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  All  the  Press  will  shout  the 
story  of  my  practical  joke — Paris  will  be  as- 
tounded that  I,  Robichon,  lectured  as  Jacques 
Roux  and  curdled  an  audience's  blood.  Millions 
will  speak  of  your  intended  lecture  tour  who 
otherwise  would  never  have  heard  of  it.  I  am  giv- 
ing j^ou  the  grandest  advertisement,  and  paying 
you  for  it,  besides.  Enfin,  I  will  throw  a  deport- 
ment lesson  in !    Is  it  agreed?" 

''Agreed,  monsieur!"  said  Roux. 

Oh,  the  trepidation  of  Quinquart !  Who  could 
eclipse  Robichon  if  his  performance  of  the  part 
equalled  his  conception  of  it?  At  the  theatre 
that  evening  Quinquart  followed  Suzanne  about 
the  wings  pathetically.  He  was  garbed  like  a 
buffoon,  but  he  felt  like  Romeo.  The  throng  that 
applauded  his  capers  were  far  from  suspecting 
the  romantic  longings  under  his  magenta  wig. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  thankful  that 
the  author  hadn't  given  him  more  to  do. 

And,  oh,  the  excitement  of  Robichon!  He  was 
to  put  his  powers  to  a  tremendous  test,  and  if 
he  made  the  effect  that  he  anticipated  he  had  no 
fear  of  Quinquart's  going  one  better.  Suzanne, 
to  whom  he  whispered  his  project  proudly,  an- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS  233 

nounced  an  intention  of  being  present  to  "see 
the  fun."  Quinquart  also  promised  to  be  there. 
Robichon  sat  up  all  night  preparing  his  lecture. 

If  you  wish  to  know  whether  Suzanne  rejoiced 
at  the  prospect  of  his  winning  her,  history  is  not 
definite  on  the  point ;  but  some  chroniclers  assert 
that  at  this  period  she  made  more  than  usual  of 
Quinquart,  who  had  developed  a  hump  as  big  as 
the  Pantheon. 

And  they  all  went  to  Appeville-sous-Bois. 

Though  no  one  in  the  town  was  likely  to  know 
the  features  of  the  Executioner,  it  was  to  be  re- 
membered that  people  there  might  know  the 
actor's,  and  Robichon  had  made  up  to  resemble 
Roux  as  closely  as  possible.  Arriving  at  the  hum- 
ble hall,  he  was  greeted  by  the  lessee,  heard  that 
a  "good  house"  was  expected,  and  smoked  a  ciga- 
rette in  the  retiring-room  while  the  audience 
assembled. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  lessee  reappeared. 

"All  is  ready,  monsieur  Roux,"  he  said. 

Robichon  rose. 

He  saw  Suzanne  and  Quinquart  in  the  third 
row,  and  was  tempted  to  wink  at  them. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen " 

All  eyes  were  riveted  on  him  as  he  began;  even 
the  voice  of  the  "Executioner"  exercised  a  mor- 


234^         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

bid  fascination  over  the  crowd.  The  men  nudged 
their  neighbours  appreciatively,  and  women 
gazed  at  him,  half  horrified,  half  charmed. 

The  opening  of  his  address  was  quiet  enough — 
there  was  even  a  humorous  element  in  it,  as  he 
narrated  imaginary  experiences  of  his  boyhood. 
People  tittered,  and  then  glanced  at  one  another 
with  an  apologetic  air,  as  if  shocked  at  such  a 
monster's  daring  to  amuse  them.  Suzanne  whis- 
pered to  Quinquart:  "Too  cheerful;  he  hasn't 
struck  the  right  note."  Quinquart  whispered 
back  gloomily :  "Wait ;  he  may  be  playing  for  the 
contrast!" 

And  Quinquart's  assumption  was  correct. 
Gradually  the  cheerfulness  faded  from  the  speak- 
er's voice,  the  humorous  incidents  were  past. 
Gruesome,  hideous,  grew  the  anecdotes.  The  hall 
shivered.  Necks  were  craned,  and  white  faces 
twitched  suspensively.  He  dwelt  on  the  agonies 
of  the  Condemned,  he  recited  crimes  in  detail, 
he  mirrored  the  last  moments  before  the  blade 
fell.  He  shrieked  his  remorse,  his  lacerating  re- 
morse. "I  am  a  murderer,"  he  sobbed ;  and  in'the 
hall  one  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

There  was  no  applause  when  he  finished — ^that 
set  the  seal  on  his  success ;  he  bowed  and  withdrew 
amid  tense  silence.  Still  none  moved  in  the  hall, 
until,  with  a  rush,  the  representatives  of  the  Press 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS  235 

sped  forth  to  proclaim  Jacques  Roux  an  unparal- 
leled sensation. 

The  triumph  of  Robichon!  How  generous 
were  the  congratulations  of  Quinquart,  and  how 
sweet  the  admiring  tributes  of  Suzanne!  And 
there  was  another  compliment  to  come — nothing 
less  than  a  card  from  the  marquis  de  Thevenin, 
requesting  an  interview  at  his  home. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Robichon,  enravished,  ''an  in- 
vitation from  a  noble !  That  proves  the  effect  I 
made,  hein?" 

''Who  may  he  be?"  inquired  Quinquart.  "I 
never  heard  of  the  marquis  de  Thevenin !" 

"It  is  immaterial  whether  you  have  heard  of 
him,"  replied  Robichon.  "He  is  a  marquis,  and 
he  desires  to  converse  with  me !  It  is  an  honour 
that  one  must  appreciate.    I  shall  assuredly  go." 

And,  being  a  bit  of  a  snob,  he  sought  a  fiacre 
in  high  feather. 

The  drive  was  short,  and  when  the  cab  stopped 
he  w^as  distinctly  taken  aback  to  perceive  the  un- 
pretentious aspect  of  the  nobleman's  abode.  It 
was,  indeed,  nothing  better  than  a  lodging.  A 
peasant  admitted  him,  and  the  room  to  which  he 
was  ushered  boasted  no  warmer  hospitality  than 
a  couple  of  candles  and  a  decanter  of  wine.  How- 
ever, the  sconces  were  massive  silver.  Monsieur 
le  marquis,  he  was  informed,  had  been  suddenly 


236         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

compelled  to  summon  his  physician,  and  begged 
that  monsieur  Roux  would  allow  him  a  few  min- 
utes' grace. 

Robichon  ardently  admired  the  candlesticks, 
but  began  to  think  he  might  have  supped  more 
cozily  with  Suzanne. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  door  opened. 

The  marquis  de  Thevenin  was  old — so  old  that 
he  seemed  to  be  falling  to  pieces  as  he  tottered 
forward.  His  skin  was  yellow  and  shrivelled,  his 
mouth  sunken,  his  hair  sparse  and  grey ;  and  from 
this  weird  face  peered  strange  eyes — ^the  eyes  of 
a  fanatic. 

'  "Monsieur,  I  owe  you  many  apologies  for  my 
delay,"  he  wheezed.  "My  unaccustomed  exer- 
tion this  evening  fatigued  me,  and  on  my  return 
from  the  hall  I  found  it  necessary  to  see  my  doc- 
tor. Your  lecture  was  wonderful,  monsieur 
Roux — most  interesting  and  instructive;  I  shall 
never  forget  it." 

Robichon  bowed  his  acknowledgments. 

"Sit  down,  monsieur  Roux,  do  not  stand!  Let 
me  offer  you  ^ome  wine.  I  am  forbidden  to  touch 
it  myself.  I  am  a  poor  host,  but  my  age  must 
be  my  excuse." 

"To  be  the  guest  of  monsieur  le  marquis,"  mur- 
mured Robichon,  "is  a  privilege,  an  honour, 
which — er " 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS  237 

"Ah,"  sighed  the  Marquis.  "I  shall  very  soon 
be  in  the  Republic  where  all  men  are  really  equals 
and  the  only  masters  are  the'worms.  My  reason 
for  requesting  you  to  come  was  to  speak  of  your 
unfortunate  experiences — of  a  certain  unfortu- 
nate experience  in  particular.  You  referred  in 
your  lecture  to  the  execution  of  one  called  'Victor 
Lesueur.'    He  died  game,  hein?" 

"As  plucky  a  soul  as  I  ever  dispatched!"  said 
Robichon,  savouring  the  burgundy. 

"Ah!  Not  a  tremor?  He  strode  to  the  guillo- 
tine like  a  man?" 

"Like  a  hero!"  said  Robichon,  who  knew  noth- 
ing about  him. 

"That  was  fine,"  said  the  Marquis;  "that  was 
as  it  should  be!  You  have  never  known  a  pris- 
oner to  die  more  bravely?"  There  was  a  note  of 
pride  in  his  voice  that  was  unmistakable. 

"I  shall  always  recall  his  courage  with  respect," 
declared  Robichon,  mystified. 

"Did  you  respect  it  at  the  time?" 

"Pardon,  monsieur  le  marquis?" 

"I  inquire  if  you  respected  it  at  the  time ;  did 
you  spare  him  all  needless  suffering?" 

"There  is  no  suffering,"  said  Robichon.  "So 
swift  is  the  knife  that " 

The  host  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "I 
refer  to  mental  suffering.    Cannot  you  realise  the 


^38         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

emotions  of  an  innocent  man  condemned  to  a 
shameful  death!" 

"Innocent !  As  for  that,  they  all  say  that  they 
are  innocent." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it.  Victor,  however,  spoke  the 
truth.    I  know  it.    He  was  my  son." 

"Your  son?"  faltered  Robichon,  aghast. 

"My  only  son — ^the  only  soul  I  loved  on  earth. 
Yes;  he  was  innocent,  monsieur  Roux.  And  it 
was  you  who  butchered  him — ^he  died  by  your 
hands." 

"I — I  was  but  the  instrument  of  the  law," 
stammered  Robichon.  ^^I  was  not  responsible  for 
his  fate,  myself." 

"You  have  given  a  masterly  lecture,  monsieur 
Roux,"  said  the  Marquis  musingly;  "I  find  my- 
self in  agreement  with  all  that  you  said  in  it — 
'you  are  his  murderer.'  I  hope  the  wine  is  to 
your  taste,  monsieur  Roux?    Do  not  spare  it!" 

"The  wine?"  gasped  the  actor.  He  started  to 
his  feet,  trembling — he  understood. 

"It  is  poisoned,"  said  the  old  man  calmly.  "In 
an  hour  you  will  be  dead." 

"Great  Heavens !"  moaned  Robichon.  Already 
he  was  conscious  of  a  strange  sensation — ^his  blood 
was  chilled,  his  limbs  were  weighted,  there  were 
shadows  before  his  eyes. 

"Ah,  I  have  no  fear  of  you!"  continued  the 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS  S39 

other;  ^'I  am  feeble,  I  could  not  defend  myself; 
but  your  violence  would  avail  you  nothing. 
Fight,  or  faint,  as  you  please — ^you  are  doomed." 
For  some  seconds  they  stared  at  each  other 
dumbly — ^the  actor  paralysed  by  terror,  the  host 
wearing  the  smile  of  a  lunatic.  And  then  the 
"lunatic"  slowly  peeled  court-plaster  from  his 
teeth,  and  removed  features,  and  lifted  a  wig. 

And  when  the  whole  story  was  published,  a 
delighted  Paris  awarded  the  palm  to  Quinquart 
without  a  dissentient  voice,  for  while  Robichon 
had  duped  an  audience,  Quinquart  had  duped 
Robichon  himself. 

Robichon  bought  the  silver  candlesticks,  which 
had  been  hired  for  the  occasion,  and  he  presented 
them  to  Quinquart  and  Suzanne  on  their  wed- 
ding-day. 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE 

They  were  called  the  "Two  Children"  because 
they  were  so  unpractical ;  even  in  bohemia,  where 
practicality  is  the  last  virtue  to  flourish,  their  im- 
providence was  surprising;  but  really  they  were 
not  children  at  all — ^they  had  been  married  for 
three  years,  though  to  watch  their  billing  and  coo- 
ing, you  would  have  supposed  them  to  be  bride 
and  bridegroom. 

Julien  and  Juliette  had  fallen  in  love  and  run 
to  the  Mairie  as  joyously  as  if  chateaubriands 
were  to  be  gathered  from  the  boughs  in  the  Jardin 
des  Buttes-Chaumont ;  and  since  then  their  home 
had  been  the  studio  under  the  slates,  where  they 
were  often  penniless.  Indeed,  if  it  had  not  been 
fpr  the  intermittent  mercies  of  madame  Cochard, 
the  concierge,  they  would  have  starved  under  the 
slates.  However,  they  were  sure  that  the  pictures 
which  Julien  painted  would  some  day  make  him 
celebrated,  and  that  the  fairy-tales  which  Juliette 
weaved  would  some  day  be  as  famous  as  Hans 
Andersen's.  So  they  laughed,  and  painted  and 
scribbled,  and  spent  their  money  on  bonbons,  in- 

240 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  241 

stead  of  saving  it  for  bread ;  and  when  they  had 
no  dinner,  they  would  kiss  each  other,  and  say 
"There  is  a  good  time  coming."  And  they  were 
called  the  "Two  Children,"  as  you  know. 

But  even  the  patience  of  madame  Cochard  was 
taxed  when  Juliette  brought  back  the  poodle. 

She  found  him — a  strayed,  muddy,  unhappy 
little  poodle — in  the  rue  de  Rivoli  one  wet  after- 
noon in  November,  and  what  more  natural  than 
that  she  should  immediately  bear  him  home,  and 
propose  to  give  him  a  bath,  and  adopt  him?  It 
was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  since  she 
was  Juliette,  yet  this  madame  Cochard,  who  ob- 
jected to  a  dog  on  her  stairs  as  violently  as  if  it 
were  a  tiger,  was  furious. 

"Is  it  not  enough,"  she  cried,  "that  you  are  the 
worst  tenants  in  the  house,  you  two — ^that  you  are 
always  behindhand  with  your  rent,  and  that  I 
must  fill  your  mouths  out  of  my  own  purse?  Is 
a  concierge  an  Angel  from  Heaven,  do  you  think, 
that  you  expect  her  to  provide  also  for  lost  dogs?" 

"Dear,  kind  madame  Cochard,"  cooed  Juliette, 
"you  will  learn  to  love  the  little  creature  as  if  it 
were  your  own  child!  See  how  trustfully  he 
regards  you!" 

"It  is  a  fact,"  added  Julien;  "he  seems  to  take 
to  her  already!  It  is  astonishing  how  quickly  a 
dog  recognises  a  good  heart." 


^42         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Good  heart,  or  not,"  exclaimed  the  concierge, 
"it  is  to  be  understood  that  I  do  not  consent  to 
this  outrage.    The  poodle  shall  not  remain!" 

"Be  discreet,"  urged  Juliette,  "I  entreat  you  to 
be  discreet,  for  your  own  sake ;  if  you  must  have 
the  whole  truth,  he  is  a  fairy  poodle !" 

"What  do  you  say?"  ejaculated  madame 
Cochard. 

"He  is  a  fairy  poodle,  and  if  we  treat  him  un- 
generously, we  shall  suffer.  Remember  the  his- 
tory of  the  Lodgers,  the  Concierge,  and  the 
Pug!" 

"I  have  never  heard  of  such  a  history,"  re- 
turned madame  Cochard;  "and  I  do  not  believe 
that  there  ever  was  one." 

^'She  has  never  heard  the  history  of  the  Lodg- 
ers, the  Concierge,  and  the  Pug!"  cried  Juliette. 
"Oh,  then  listen,  madame!  Once  upon  a  time 
there  were  two  lodgers,  a  young  man  and  his  wife, 
and  they  were  so  poor  that  often  they  depended 
on  the  tenderness  of  the  concierge  to  supply  them 
with  a  dinner." 

"Did  they  also  throw  away  their  good  money 
on  bonbons  and  flowers?"  asked  madame 
Cochard,  trying  her  utmost  to  look  severe. 

"It  is  possible,"  admitted  Juliette,  who  was 
perched  on  the  table,  with  the  dirty  little  animal 
in  her  lap,  "for  though  they  are  our  hero  and 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  MS 

heroine,  I  cannot  pretend  that  they  were  very 
wise.  Well,  this  concierge,  who  suffered  badly 
from  lumbago  and  stairs,  had  sometimes  a  bit  of 
temper,  so  you  may  figure  yourself  what  a  fuss 
she  raised  when  the  poor  lodgers  brought  home  a 
friendless  pug  to  add  to  their  embarrassments. 

However " 

"There  is  no  'however,'  "  persisted  madame 
Cochard;  "she  raises  a  fuss,  and  that  is  all  about 

itr^ 

"Pardon,  dear  madame,"  put  in  Julien,  "you 
confuse  the  cases;  we  are  now  concerned  with  the 
veracious  history  of  the  pug,  not  the  uncertain 
future  of  the  poodle." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Juliette.  "She  raised  a  terri- 
ble fuss  and  declared  that  the  pug  should  go,  but 
finally  she  melted  to  it  and  made  it  welcome. 
And  then,  what  do  you  suppose  happened?  Why, 
it  turned  out  to  be  an  enchanted  prince,  who 
rewarded  them  all  with  wealth  and  happiness. 
The  young  man's  pictures  were  immediately  ac- 
cepted by  the  Salon — did  I  mention  that  he  was 
an  artist?  The  young  woman's  stories — did  I 
tell  you  that  she  wrote  stories? — became  so  much 
the  fashion  that  her  head  swam  with  joy;  and 
the  concierge— the  dear,  kind  concierge — was 
changed  into  a  beautiful  princess,  and  never  had 
to  walk  up  any  stairs  again  as  long  as  she  lived. 


244         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Thus  we  see  that  one  should  never  forbid  lodgers 
to  adopt  a  dog!" 

"Thus  we  see  that  they  do  well  to  call  you  a 
pair  of  'children/  "  replied  madame  Cochard, 
"that  is  what  we  see!  Well,  well,  keep  the  dog, 
since  you  are  so  much  bent  on  it;  only  I  warn 
you  that  if  it  gives  me  trouble,  it  will  be  sausages 
in  no  time !  I  advise  you  to  wash  it  without  delay, 
for  a  more  deplorable  little  beast  I  never  saw." 

Julien  and  Juhette  set  to  work  with  delight, 
and  after  he  was  bathed  and  dry,  the  alteration  in 
the  dog  was  quite  astonishing.  Although  he  did 
not  precisely  turn  into  a  prince,  he  turned  into  a 
poodle  of  the  most  fashionable  aspect.  Obviously 
an  aristocrat  among  poodles,  a  poodle  of  high 
estate.  The  metamorphosis  was  so  striking  that 
a  new  fear  assailed  his  rescuers,  the  fear  that  it 
might  be  dishonest  of  them  to  retain  him — proba- 
bly some  great  lady  was  disconsolate  at  his  loss ! 

Sure  enough!  A  few  days  later,  when  San- 
quereau  called  upon  them,  he  said: 

"By  the  way,  did  I  not  hear  that  you  had  found 
a  poodle,  my  children?  Doubtless  it  is  the  poodle 
for  which  they  advertise.  See!"  And  he  pro- 
duced a  copy  of  a  journal  in  which  "a  handsome 
reward"  was  promised  for  the  restoration  of  an 
animal  which  resembled  their  protege  to  a  tuft. 

The  description  was  too  accurate  for  the  Chil- 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  245 

dren  to  deceive  themselves,  and  that  afternoon 
JuHette  carried  the  dog  to  a  magnificent  house 
which  was  nothing  less  than  the  residence  of  the 
comtesse  de  Grand  Ecusson. 

She  was  left  standing  in  a  noble  hall  while  a 
flunkey  bore  the  dog  away.  Then  another 
flunkey  bade  her  follow  him  upstairs;  and  in  a 
salon  which  was  finer  than  anything  that  Juliette 
had  ever  met  with  outside  the  pages  of  a  novel, 
the  Countess  was  reclining  on  a  couch  with  the 
poodle  in  her  arms. 

"I  am  so  grateful  to  you  for  the  recovery  of 
my  darling,"  said  the  great  lady;  ''my  distress  has 
been  insupportable.  Ah,  naughty,  naughty 
Racine!"  She  made  a  pretence  of  chastising  the 
poodle  on  the  nose. 

"I  can  understand  it,  madame,"  said  Juliette, 
much  embarrassed. 

"Where  did  you  find  him?  And  has  he  been 
well  fed,  well  taken  care  of?  I  hope  he  has  not 
been  sleeping  in  a  draught?" 

''Oh,  indeed,  madame,  he  has  been  nourished 
like  a  beloved  child.  Doubtless,  not  so  delicately 
as  with  madame,  but " 

"It  was  most  kind  of  you,"  said  the  lady.  "I 
count  myself  blessed  that  my  little  Racine  fell 
into  such  good  hands.  Now  as  to  the  reward, 
what  sum  would  you  think  sufficient?" 


246         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Juliette  looked  shy.  "I  thank  you,  madame, 
but  we  could  not  accept  anything,"  she  faltered. 

"What?"  exclaimed  the  Countess,  raising  her 
eyebrows  in  surprise,  "you  cannot  accept  any- 
thing?   How  is  that?" 

"Well,"  said  Juhette,  "it  would  be  base  to 
accept  money  for  a  simple  act  of  honesty.  It  is 
true  that  we  did  not  wish  to  part  with  the  dog — 
we  had  grown  to  love  him — but,  as  to  our  receiv- 
ing payment  for  giving  him  up,  that  is  impos- 
sible." 

The  Countess  laughed  merrily.  "What  a 
funny  child  you  are!  And,  who  are  'we' — ^you 
and  your  parents?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Juliette;  "my  parents  are  in 
Heaven,  madame;  but  I  am  married." 

"Your  husband  must  be  in  heaven,  too!"  said 
the  Countess,  who  was  a  charming  woman. 

"Ah,"  demurred  Juliette,  "but  although  I  have 
a  warm  heart,  I  have  also  a  healthy  appetite,  and 
he  is  not  rich;  he  is  a  painter." 

"I  must  go  to  see  his  pictures  some  day,"  re- 
plied the  comtesse  de  Grand  Ecusson.  "Give  me 
the  address — and  believe  that  I  am  extremely 
grateful  to  you !" 

It  need  not  be  said  that  Juliette  skipped  home 
on  air  after  this  interview.     The  hint  of  such 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  247 

patronage  opened  the  gates  of  paradise  to  her, 
and  the  prospect  was  equally  dazzling  to  Julien, 
For  fully  a  week  they  talked  of  nothing  but  a 
visit  from  the  comtesse  de  Grand  Ecusson,  hav- 
ing no  suspicion  that  fine  ladies  often  forgot  their 
pretty  promises  as  quickly  as  they  made  them. 

And  the  week,  and  a  fortnight,  and  a  month 
passed,  and  at  last  the  expectation  faded;  they 
ceased  to  indulge  their  fancies  of  a  carriage-and- 
pair  dashing  into  the  street  with  a  Lady  Bounti- 
ful. And  what  was  much  more  serious,  madame 
Cochard  ceased  to  indulge  their  follies.  The  truth 
was  that  she  had  never  pardoned  the  girl  for  re- 
fusing to  accept  the  proffered  reward;  the  deli- 
cacy that  prompted  the  refusal  was  beyond  her 
comprehension,  and  now  that  the  pair  were  in 
arrears  with  their  rent  again,  she  put  no  bridle 
on  her  tongue. 

"It  appears  to  me  that  it  would  have  been  more 
honourable  to  accept  money  for  a  poodle  than  to 
owe  money  to  a  landlord,"  she  grunted.  "It 
must  be  perfectly  understood  that  if  the  sum  is 
not  forthcoming  on  the  first  of  January,  you  will 
have  to  get  out.  I  have  received  my  instructions, 
and  I  shall  obey  them.  On  the  first  day  of  Janu- 
ary, my  children,  you  pay,  or  you  go!  Le  bon 
Dieu  alone  knows  what  will  become  of  you,  but 


MS         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

that  is  no  affair  of  mine.  I  expect  you  will  die 
like  the  babes  in  the  wood,  for  you  are  no  more  fit 
to  make  a  living  than  a  cow  is  fit  to  fly." 

''Dear  madame  Cochard,"  they  answered, 
peacefully,  "why  distress  yourself  about  us?  The 
first  of  January  is  more  than  a  week  distant; 
in  a  week  we  may  sell  a  picture,  or  some  fairy 
tales — in  a  week  many  things  may  happen !"  And 
they  sunned  themselves  on  the  boulevard  the 
same  afternoon  with  as  much  serenity  as  if  they 
had  been  millionaires. 

Nevertheless,  they  did  not  sell  a  picture  or 
some  fairy  tales  in  the  week  that  followed — and 
the  first  of  January  dawned  with  relentless  punc- 
tuality, as  we  all  remember. 

In  the  early  morning,  when  madame  Cochard 
made  her  ascent  to  the  attic — ^her  arms  folded 
inexorably,  the  glare  of  a  creditor  in  her  eye — 
she  found  that  Juliette  had  already  been  out.  ( If 
you  can  believe  me,  she  had  been  out  to  waste  her 
last  two  francs  on  an  absurd  tie  for  Julien!) 

"Eh  bien,"  demanded  the  concierge  sternly, 
"where  is  your  husband?  I  am  here,  as  arranged, 
for  the  rent ;  no  doubt  he  has  it  ready  on  the  man- 
telpiece for  me?" 

"He  is  not  in,"  answered  Juliette  coaxingly, 
"and  I  am  sorry  to  say  we  have  had  disappoint- 
ments.    The  fact  is  there  is  something  wrong 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  249 

with  the  construction  of  a  story  of  which  I  had 
immense  hopes — it  needs  letting  out  at  the  waist, 
and  a  tuck  put  in  at  the  hem.  When  I  have  made 
the  alterations,  I  am  sure  it  will  fit  some  journal 
elegantly." 

"All  this  passes  forbearance!"  exclaimed 
madame  Cochard.  ''Well,  you  have  thoroughly 
understood,  and  all  is  said — ^you  will  vacate  your 
lodging  by  evening!  So  much  grace  I  give  you; 
but  at  six  o'clock  you  depart  promptly,  or  you 
will  be  ejected!  And  do  not  reckon  on  me  to 
send  any  meal  up  here  during  the  day,  for  you 
will  not  get  so  much  as  a  crust.  What  is  it  that 
you  have  been  buying  there?" 

"It  is  a  little  gift  for  Julien;  I  rose  early  to 
choose  it  before  he  woke,  and  surprise  him;  but 
when  I  returned  he  was  out." 

"A  gift?"  cried  the  concierge.  "You  have  no 
money  to  buy  food,  and  you  buy  a  gift  for  your 
husband!    What  for?" 

"What  for?"  repeated  Juliette  wonderingly. 
"Why,  because  it  is  New  Year's  Day!  And  that 
reminds  me — I  wish  you  the  compliments  of  the 
season,  madame;  may  yqu  enjoy  many  happy 
years !" 

"Kind  words  pay  no  bills,"  snapped  the  con- 
cierge. "I  have  been  lenient  far  too  long — I  have 
my  own  reputation  to  consider  with  the  landlord. 


250         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

By  six  o'clock,  bear  in  mind !"  And  then,  to  com- 
plete her  resentment,  what  should  happen  but 
that  Julien  entered  bearing  a  bouquet ! 

To  see  Julien  present  Juliette  with  the  roses, 
and  to  watch  Juliette  enchant  Julien  with  the  pre- 
posterous tie,  was  as  charming  a  little  comedy  of 
improvidence  as  you  would  be  likely  to  meet  with 
in  a  lifetime. 

"Mon  Dieu !"  gasped  madame  Cochard,  purple 
with  indignation,  "it  is,  indeed,  well  that  you  are 
leaving  here,  monsieur — a  madhouse  is  the  fitting 
address  for  you!  You  have  nothing  to  eat,  and 
you  buy  roses  for  your  wife!    What  for?'' 

"What  for?"  echoed  Julien,  astonished. 
"Why,  because  it  is  New  Year's  Day!  And  I 
take  the  opportunity  to  wish  you  the  compliments 
of  the  season,  madame — ^may  your  future  be  as 
bright  as  Juliette's  eyes!" 

"By  six  o'clock!"  reiterated  the  concierge,  who 
was  so  exasperated  that  she  could  barely  articu- 
late. "By  six  o'clock  you  will  be  out  of  the 
place !"  And  to  relieve  her  feelings,  she  slammed 
the  door  with  such  violence  that  half  a  dozen  can- 
vases fell  to  the  floor. 

"Well,  this  is  a  nice  thing,"  remarked  Julien, 
when  she  had  gone.  "It  looks  to  me,  mignonne, 
as  if  we  shall  sleep  in  the  Bois,  with  the  moon  for 
an  eiderdown." 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  261 

"At  least  you  shall  have  a  comfy  pillow,  sweet- 
heart," cried  Juliette,  drawing  his  head  to  her 
breast. 

"My  angel,  there  is  none  so  soft  in  the  Elysee. 
And  as  we  have  nothing  for  dejeuner  in  the  cup- 
board, I  propose  that  we  breakfast  now  on 
kisses." 

"Ah,  Julien!"  whispered  the  girl,  as  she  folded 
him  in  her  arms. 

"Ah,  Juliette!"  It  was  as  if  they  had  been 
married  that  morning. 

"And  yet,"  continued  the  young  man,  releas- 
ing her  at  last,  "to  own  the  truth,  your  kisses  are 
not  satisfying  as  a  menu;  they  are  the  choicest 
of  hors  d'oeuvres — they  leave  one  hungry  for 
more." 

They  were  still  making  love  when  Sanquereau 
burst  in  to  wish  them  a  Happy  New  Year. 

"How  goes  it,  my  children?"  he  cried.  "You 
look  like  a  honeymoon,  I  swear!  Am  I  in  the 
way,  or  may  I  breakfast  with  you?" 

"You  are  not  in  the  way,  mon  vieux,"  returned 
Julien;  "but  I  shall  not  invite  you  to  breakfast 
with  me,  because  my  repast  consists  of  Juliette's 
Kps." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  said  Sanquereau.  "So  you  are 
broke?  Well,  in  my  chequered  career  I  have 
breakfasted  on  much  worse  fare  than  yours." 


252         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

At  this  reply,  Juliette  blushed  with  all  the 
bashfulness  of  a  bride,  and  Julien  endeavoured 
to  assume  the  air  of  a  man  of  the  world. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said;  "we  are  in  difficulties  about 
the  rent — have  you  by  chance  a  louis  that  you 
could  lend  me?" 

Sanquereau  turned  out  his  pockets,  like  the 
good  fellow  he  was,  but  he  could  produce  no  more 
than  a  sou.  "What  a  bother!"  he  cried.  "I 
would  lend  you  a  louis  if  I  had  it  as  readily  as  a 
cigarette-paper,  but  you  see  how  I  am  situated. 
On  my  honour,  it  rends  my  heart  to  have  to 
refuse." 

"You  are  a  gallant  comrade,"  said  Julien, 
much  touched.  "Come  back  and  sup  with  us  this 
evening,  and  we  will  open  the  New  Year  with  a 
festivity!" 

"Hein?  But  there  will  be  no  supper,"  faltered 
Juliette. 

"That's  true,"  said  Julien;  "there  will  be  no 
supper — I  was  forgetting.  Still — who  knows? 
There  is  plenty  of  time;  I  shall  have  an  idea. 
Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  borrow  something  from 
Tricotrin." 

"I  shall  be  enchanted,"  responded  Sanquereau; 
"depend  on  my  arrival!  If  I  am  not  mistaken, 
I  recognize  Tricotrin's  voice  on  the  stairs." 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  25S 

His  ears  had  not  deceived  him;  Tricotrin  ap- 
peared with  Pitou  at  this  very  moment. 

"Greeting,  my  children!"  they  cried.  "How 
wags  the  world?  May  the  New  Year  bring  you 
laurels  and  lucre!" 

"To  you  also,  dear  Gustave  and  Nicolas," 
cried  the  Children.  "May  your  poems  and  your 
music  ignite  the  Seine,  and  may  Sanquereau  rise 
to  eminence  and  make  statues  of  you  both!" 

"In  the  meantime,"  added  Sanquereau,  "can 
either  of  you  put  your  hands  on  a  few  francs? 
There  is  a  fine  opening  for  them  here." 

"A  difference  of  opinion  exists  between  our- 
selves and  the  landlord,"  Julien  explained;  "we 
consider  that  he  should  wait  for  his  rent,  and  he 
holds  a  different  view.  If  you  could  lend  us  fif- 
teen francs,  we  might  effect  a  compromise." 

The  poet  and  the  composer  displayed  the  lin- 
ing of  their  pockets  as  freely  as  the  sculptor  had 
done,  but  their  capital  proved  to  be  a  sou  less 
than  his  own.  Tears  sprang  to  their  eyes  as  they 
confessed  their  inability  to  be  of  use.  "We  are 
in  despair,"  they  groaned. 

"My  good,  kind  friends,"  exclaimed  Julien, 
"your  sympathy  is  a  noble  gift  in  itself!  Join 
us  in  a  little  supper  this  evening  in  celebration 
of  the  date." 


254         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"We  shall  be  delighted,"  declared  Tricotrin 
and  Pitou. 

"But — but — "  stammered  Juliette  again, 
"where  is  it  to  come  from,  this  supper — and 
where  shall  we  be  by  supper-time?" 

"Well,  our  address  is  on  the  lap  of  the  gods," 
admitted  Julien,  "but  while  there  is  life  there  is 
hope.  Possibly  I  may  obtain  a  loan  from 
Lajeunie." 

Not  many  minutes  had  passed  before  Lajeunie 
also  paid  a  visit  to  the  attic.  "Aha,"  cried  the 
unsuccessful  novelist,  as  he  perceived  the  com- 
pany, "well  inet!  My  children,  my  brothers, 
may  your  rewards  equal  your  deserts  this  year — 
may  France  do  honour  to  your  genius !" 

"And  may  Lajeunie  be  crowned  the  Niew  Bal- 
zac," shouted  the  assembly;  "may  his  abode  be 
in  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  his  name  in  the 
mouth  of  all  the  world!" 

But,  extraordinary  as  it  appears,  Lajeunie 
proved  to  be  as  impecunious  as  the  rest  there; 
and  he  was  so  much  distressed  that  Julien,  deeply 
moved,  said : 

"Come  back  to  supper,  Lajeunie,  we  will  drink 
toasts  to  the  Muses!"  And  now  there  were  four 
guests  invited  to  the  impracticable  supper,  and 
when  the  Children  were  left  alone  they  clapped 
their  hands  at  the  prospect. 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  255 

"How  merry  we  shall  be!"  Julien  exclaimed; 
"and  awhile  ago  we  talked  of  passing  the  night 
in  the  Bois!  It  only  shows  you  that  one  can 
never  tell  what  an  hour  may  bring  forth." 

"Yes,  yes,"  assented  Juliette  blithely.  "And 
as  for  the  supper " 

"We  shall  not  require  it  till  nine  o'clock  at  the 
earliest." 

"And  now  it  is  no  more  than  midday.  Why, 
there  is  an  eternity  for  things  to  arrange  them- 
selves!" 

"Just  so.  The  sky  may  rain  truffles  in  such 
an  interval,"  said  the  painter.  And  they  drew 
their  chairs  closer  to  the  fire,  and  pretended  to 
each  other  that  they  were  not  hungry. 

The  hours  crept  past,  and  the  sunshine  waned, 
and  snow  began  to  flutter  over  Paris.  But  no 
truffles  fell.  By  degrees  the  fire  burnt  low,  and 
died.  To  beg  for  more  fuel  was  impossible,  and 
Juliette  shivered  a  little. 

"You  are  cold,  sweetheart,"  sighed  Julien.  "I 
will  fetch  a  blanket  from  the  bed  and  wrap  you 
in  it." 

"No,"  she  murmured,  "wrap  me  in  your  arms 
—it  will  be  better." 

Darker  and  darker  grew  the  garret,  and  faster 
and  faster  fell  the  snow. 

"I  have  a  fancy,"  said  Juliette,  breaking  a 


256        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

long  silence,  "that  it  is  the  hour  in  which  a  fairy 
should  appear  to  us.  Let  us  look  to  see  if  she 
is  coming!" 

They  peered  from  the  window,  but  in  the  twi- 
light no  fairy  was  to  be  discerned;  only  an  "old 
clo'  "  man  was  visible,  trudging  on  his  round. 

"I  declare,"  cried  Julien,  "he  is  the  next  best 
thing  to  your  fairy!  I  will  sell  my  summer  suit 
and  my  velvet  jacket.  What  do  I  want  of  a 
velvet  jacket?  Coffee  and  eggs  will  be  much 
more  cheerful." 

"And  I,"  vowed  Juliette,  "can  spare  my  best 
hat  easily — indeed,  it  is  an  encumbrance.  If  we 
make  madame  Cochard  a  small  peace-offering 
she  may  allow  us  to  remain  until  the  morning." 

"What  a  grand  idea!  We  shall  provide  our- 
selves with  a  night's  shelter  and  the  means  to 
entertain  our  friends  as  well.  Hasten  to  collect 
our  wardrobe,  mignonette,  while  I  crack  my 
throat  to  make  him  hear.    He,  he!" 

At  the  repeated  cries  the  "old  clo'  "  man  lifted 
his  gaze  to  the  fifth-floor  window  at  last,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  Julien  and  Juliette  were  kneeling 
on  the  boards  above  a  pile  of  garments,  which 
they  raised  one  by  one  for  his  inspection. 

"Regard,  monsieur,"  said  Julien,  "this  elegant 
summer  suit!    It  is  almost  as  good  as  new.     I 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  257 

begin  to  hesitate  to  part  with  it.    What  shall  we 
say  for  this  elegant  summer  suit?" 

The  dealer  fingered  it  disdainfully.  "Show  me 
boots,"  he  suggested;  "we  can  do  business  in 
boots." 

"Alas!"  replied  Julien,  "the  only  boots  that  I 
possess  are  on  my  feet.  We  will  again  admire 
the  suit.  What  do  you  estimate  it  at — ^ten 
francs?" 

"Are  you  insane?  are  you  a  lunatic?"  returned 
the  dealer.  "To  a  reckless  man  it  might  be  worth 
ten  sous.    Let  us  talk  of  boots !" 

"I  cannot  go  barefoot,"  expostulated  Julien. 
"Juliette,  my  Heart,  do  you  happen  to  possess 
a  second  pair  of  boots?" 

Juliette  shook  her  head  forlornly.  "But  I 
have  a  hat  with  daisies  in  it,"  she  said.  "Ob- 
serve, monsieur,  the  delicate  tints  of  the  buds! 
How  like  to  nature,  how  exquisite  they  are! 
They  make  one  dream  of  courtship  in  the  woods. 
I  will  take  five  francs  for  it." 

"From  me  I  swear  you  will  not  take  them!" 
said  the  "old  clo'  "  man.  "Boots,"  he  pleaded; 
"for  the  love  of  God,  boots!" 

"Morbleu,  what  a  passion  for  boots  you  have!" 
moaned  the  unhappy  painter;  "they  obsess  you, 
they  warp  your  judgment.     Can  you  think  of 


26S         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

nothing  in  the  world  but  boots?  Look,  we  come 
to  the  gem  of  the  exhibition — a  velvet  jacket! 
A  jacket  like  this  confers  an  air  of  greatness,  one 
could  not  feel  the  pinch  of  poverty  in  such  a 
jacket.  It  is,  I  confess,  a  little  white  at  the  el- 
bows, but  such  high  lights  are  very  effective. 
And  observe  the  texture — as  soft  as  a  darling's 
cheek!" 

The  other  turned  it  about  with  indifferent 
hands,  and  the  Children  began  to  realise  that  he 
would  prove  no  substitute  for  a  fairy  after  all. 
Then,  while  they  watched  him  with  sinking 
hearts,  the  door  was  suddenly  opened,  and  the 
concierge  tottered  on  the  threshold. 

"Monsieur,  madame!"  she  panted,  with  such 
respect  that  they  stared  at  each  other, 

"Eh  bien?" 

"A  visitor!"  She  leant  against  the  wall,  over- 
whelmed. 

"Who  is  itr 

"Madame  la  comtesse  de  Grand  Ecusson!" 

Actually!  The  Countess  had  kept  her  word 
after  all,  and  now  she  rustled  in,  before  the  "old 
clo'  "  man  could  be  banished.  White  as  a  virgin 
canvas,  Julien  staggered  forward  to  receive  her, 
a  pair  of  trousers,  which  he  was  too  agitated  to 
remember,  dangling  under  his  arm.  "Madame, 
this   honour!"   he   stammered;   and,   making   a 


THE  FAIRY  POODLE  ^59 

piteous  effort  to  disguise  his  beggary,  "One's 
wardrobe  accumulates  so  that,  really,  in  a  small 
menage,  one  has  no  room  to " 

"I  have  suffered  from  the  inconvenience  my- 
self, monsieur,"  said  the  Countess  graciously. 
"Your  charming  wife  was  so  kind  as  to  invite  me 
to  view  your  work;  and  see — ^my  little  Racine  has 
come  to  wish  his  preservers  a  Happy  New 
Year!" 

And,  on  the  honour  of  an  historian,  he  brought 
one!  Before  they  left  she  had  given  a  commis- 
sion for  his  portrait  at  a  thousand  francs,  and 
purchased  two  landscapes,  for  which  a  thousand 
francs  more  would  be  paid  on  the  morrow.  When 
Sanquereau,  and  Lajeunie,  and  Tricotrin,  and 
Pitou  arrived,  expecting  the  worst,  they  were 
amazed  to  discover  the  Children  waltzing  round 
the  attic  to  the  music  of  their  own  voices. 

What  hurras  rang  out  when  the  explanation 
was  forthcoming;  what  loans  were  promised  to 
the  guests,  and  what  a  gay  quadrille  was  danced ! 
It  was  not  until  the  last  figure  had  concluded  that 
Julien  and  Juliette  recognised  that,  although 
they  would  be  wealthy  in  the  morning,  they  were 
still  penniless  that  night. 

"Helas !  but  we  have  no  supper  after  all," 
groaned  Julien. 

"Pardon,  it  is  here,  monsieur!*'  shouted  ma- 


260         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOXJLEVARD 

dame  Cochard,  who  entered  behind  a  kingly- 
feast.  ''Comment,  shall  the  artist  honoured  by 
madame  la  comtesse  de  Grand  Ecusson  have  no 
supper?  Pot-au-feu,  monsieur;  leg  of  mutton, 
monsieur;  little  tarts,  monsieur;  dessert,  mon- 
sieur; and  for  each  person  a  bottle  of  good  wine!" 

And  the  justice  that  was  done  to  it,  and  the 
laughter  that  pealed  under  the  slates !  The  Chil- 
dren didn't  forget  that  it  was  all  due  to  the  dog. 
Juhette  raised  her  glass  radiantly. 

"Gentlemen,"  she  cried,  "I  ask  you  to  drink 
to  the  Fairy  Poodle  r 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD 

Janiaud  used  to  lie  abed  all  day,  and  drink 
absinthe  all  night.  When  he  contrived  to  write 
his  poetry  is  a  mystery.  But  he  did  write  it, 
and  he  might  have  written  other  things,  too,  if 
he  had  had  the  will.  It  was  often  said  that  his 
paramount  duty  was  to  publish  a  history  of  mod- 
ern Paris,  for  the  man  was  an  encyclopaedia  of 
unsuspected  facts.  Since  he  can  never  publish 
it  now,  however,  I  am  free  to  tell  the  story  of 
the  Cafe  du  Bon  Vieux  Temps  as  he  told  it  to  an 
English  editor  and  me  one  night  on  the  terrace 
of  the  cafe  itself.    It  befell  thus : 

When  we  entered  that  shabby  little  Mont- 
martre  restaurant,  Janiaud  chanced  to  be  seated, 
at  a  table  in  a  comer,  sipping  his  favourite  stim- 
ulant. He  was  deplorably  dirty  and  suggested 
a  scarecrow,  and  the  English  editor  looked  nerv- 
ous when  I  offered  an  introduction.  Still, 
Janiaud  was  Janiaud.  The  offer  was  accepted, 
and  Janiaud  discoursed  in  his  native  tongue. 

At  midnight  the  Editor  ordered  supper.  Be- 
ing unfamiliar  with  the  Cafe  du  Bon  Vieux 

261 


262         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Temps  in  those  days,  I  said  that  I  would  drink 
beer.  Janiaud  smiled  sardonically,  and  the 
waiter  surprised  us  with  the  information  that 
beer  could  not  be  supplied. 

*^What?" 

"After  midnight,  nothing  but  champagne,"  he 
answered. 

"Really?  Well,  let  us  go  somewhere  else,"  I 
proposed. 

But  the  Editor  would  not  hear  of  that.  He 
had  a  princely  soul,  and,  besides,  he  was  "doing 
Paris." 

"All  the  same,  what  does  it  mean?"  he  inquired 
of  Janiaud. 

Janiaud  blew  smoke  rings.  "It  is  the  rule. 
During  the  evening  the  bock-drinker  is  welcomed 
here  as  elsewhere;  but  at  midnight — ^well,  you 
will  see  what  you  will  see  1" 

And  we  saw  very  soon.  The  bourgeoisie  of 
Montmartre  had  straggled  out  while  we  talked, 
and  in  a  little  while  the  restaurant  was  crowded 
with  a  rackety  crew  who  had  driven  up  in  cabs. 
Everybody  but  ourselves  was  in  evening-dress. 
Where  the  coppers  had  been  counted  carefully, 
gold  was  scattered.  A  space  was  cleared  for 
dancing,  and  mademoiselle  Nan  Joliquette 
obliged  the  company  with  her  latest  comic  song. 

The  Editor  was  interested.    "It  is  a  queer 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD         263 

change,  though!    Has  it  always  been  like  this?" 

''Ask  Janiaud,"  I  said;  ''I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  rephed  Janiaud;  "no,  indeed, 
it  was  not  always  like  this !  It  used  to  be  as  quiet 
at  midnight  as  at  any  other  hour.  But  it  became 
celebrated  as  a  supper-place ;  and  now  it  is  quite 
the  thing  for  the  ardent  spirits,  with  money,  to 
come  and  kick  up  their  heels  here  until  five  in 
the  morning." 

"Curious,  how  such  customs  originate,"  re- 
marked the  Editor.  "Here  we  have  a  restaurant 
which  is  out  of  the  way,  which  is  the  reverse  of 
luxurious,  and  which,  for  all  that,  seems  to  be 
a  gold  mine  to  the  proprietor.  Look  at  him! 
Look  at  his  white  waistcoat  and  his  massive 
watch-chain,  his  air  of  prosperity." 

"How  did  he  come  to  rake  it  in  like  this, 
Janiaud — ^you  know  everything?"  I  said. 

The  poet  stroked  his  beard,  and  glanced  at  his 
empty  glass.    The  Editor  raised  a  bottle. 

"I  cannot  talk  on  Clicquot,"  demurred 
Janiaud.  "If  you  insist,  I  will  take  another  ab- 
sinthe— they  will  allow  it,  in  the  circimistances. 
Sst,  Adolphe!"  The  waiter  whisked  over  to  us. 
"Monsieur  pays  for  champagne,  but  I  prefer 
absinthe.     There  is  no  law  against  that,  hein?" 

Adolphe  smiled  tolerantly. 

"Shall  we  sit  outside?"  suggested  the  Editor. 


264         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"What  do  you  think?  It's  getting  rather  riotous 
in  here,  isn't  it?" 

So  we  moved  on  to  the  terrace,  and  waited 
while  Janiaud  prepared  his  poison. 

"It  is  a  coincidence  that  you  have  asked  me 
for  the  history  of  the  Bon  Vieux  Temps  to- 
night," he  began,  after  a  gulp;  "if  you  had  asked 
for  it  two  days  earlier,  the  climax  would  have 
been  missing.  The  story  completed  itself  yes- 
terday, and  I  happened  to  be  here  and  saw  the 
end. 

"Listen :  Dupont — the  proprietor  whom  mon- 
sieur has  just  admired — used  to  be  chef  to  a  fami- 
ly on  the  boulevard  Haussmann.  He  had  a  very 
fair  salary,  and  probably  he  would  have  remained 
in  the  situation  till  now  but  for  the  fact  that  he 
fell  in  love  with  the  parlourmaid.  She  was  a 
sprightly  little  flirt,  with  ambitions,  and  she  ac- 
cepted him  only  on  condition  that  they  should 
withdraw  from  domestic  service  and  start  a  busi- 
ness of  their  own.  Dupont  was  of  a  cautious 
temperament;  he  would  have  preferred  that  they 
should  jog  along  with  some  family  in  the  capaci- 
ties of  chef  and  housekeeper.  Still,  he  consented ; 
and,  with  what  they  had  saved  between  them, 
they  took  over  this  little  restaurant — ^where  mon- 
sieur the  Editor  has  treated  me  with  such  regal 
magnificence.     It  was  not  they  who  christened 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD        265 

it — it  was  called  the  Cafe  du  Bon  Vieux  Temps 
already;  how  it  obtained  its  name  is  also  very  in- 
teresting, but  I  have  always  avoided  digressions 
in  my  work — that  is  one  of  the  first  principles  of 
the  literary  art." 

He  swallowed  some  more  absinthe. 

"They  took  the  establishment  over,  and  they 
conducted  it  on  the  lines  of  their  predecessor — 
they  provided  a  dejeuner  at  one  franc  fifty,  and 
a  dinner  at  two  francs.  These  are  side-shows  of 
the  Bon  Vieux  Temps  to-day,  but,  in  the  period 
of  which  I  speak,  they  were  all  that  it  had  to  say 
for  itself — ^they  were  its  foundation-stone,  and 
its  cupola.  When  I  had  two  francs  to  spare,  I 
used  to  dine  here  myself. 

*'Well,  the  profits  were  not  dazzling.  And 
after  marriage  the  little  parlourmaid  developed 
extravagant  tastes.  She  had  a  passion  for  thea- 
tres. I,  Janiaud,  have  nothing  to  say  against 
theatres,  excepting  that  the  managers  have  never 
put  on  my  dramas,  but  in  the  wife  of  a  struggling 
restaurateur  a  craze  for  playgoing  is  not  to  be 
encouraged.  Monsieur  will  agree?  Also,  ma- 
dame  had  a  fondness  for  dress.  She  did  little 
behind  the  counter  but  display  new  ribbons  and 
trinkets.  She  was  very  stupid  at  giving  change 
— and  always  made  the  mistake  on  the  wrong  side 
for  Dupont.    At  last  he  had  to  emplpy  a  cousin 


266         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOXJLEVARD 

of  his  own  as  dame-de-comptoir.  The  expenses 
had  increased,  and  the  returns  remained  the 
same.  In  fine,  Dupont  was  in  difficulties;  the 
Bon  Vieux  Temps  was  on  its  last  legs. 

"Listen:  There  was  at  that  time  a  dancer 
called  'Little-Flower-of- the- Wood' ;  she  was  very- 
chic,  very  popular.  She  had  her  appartement 
in  the  avenue  Wagram,  she  drove  to  the  stage- 
doors  in  her  coupe,  her  photographs  were  sold 
like  confetti  at  a  carnival.  Well,  one  afternoon, 
when  Dupont's  reflections  were  oscillating  be- 
tween the  bankruptcy  court  and  the  Morgue,  he 
was  stupefied  to  receive  a  message  from  her — she 
bade  him  reserve  a  table  for  herself  and  some 
friends  for  supper  that  night ! 

''Dupont  could  scarcely  credit  his  ears.  He 
told  his  wife  that  a  practical  joker  must  be  lark- 
ing with  him.  He  declared  that  he  would  take 
no  notice  of  the  message,  that  he  was  not  such 
an  ass  to  be  duped  by  it.  Finally,  he  proposed 
to  telegraph  to  Little-Flower-of -the- Wood,  in- 
quiring if  it  was  genuine. 

"Monsieur,  as  an  editor,  will  have  observed 
that  a  woman  who  is  incapable  in  the  daily  affairs 
of  life,  may  reveal  astounding  force  in  an  emer- 
gency? It  was  so  in  this  case.  Madame  put  her 
foot  down;  she  showed  unsuspected  commercial 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD         267 

aptitude.  She  firmly  forbade  Dupont  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  sort ! 

"  'What?'  she  exclaimed.  'You  will  telegraph 
to  her,  inquiring  ?  Never  in  this  life !  You  might 
as  well  advise  her  frankly  not*to  come.  What 
would  such  a  question  mean?  That  you  do  not 
think  the  place  is  good  enough  for  her!  Well, 
if  you  do  not  think  so,  neither  will  she — she  will 
decide  that  she  had  a  foolish  impulse  and  stay 
away !' 

"  'Mon  Dieu !  do  you  dream  that  a  woman  ac- 
customed to  the  Cafe  de  Paris  would  choose  to 
sup  in  an  obscure  little  restaurant  like  ours?' 
said  Dupont,  fuming.  'Do  you  dream  that  I  am 
going  to  buy  partridges,  and  peaches,  and  wines, 
and  heaven  knows  what  other  delicacies,  in  the 
dark?  Do  you  dream  that  I  am  going  to  ruin 
myself  while  every  instinct  in  me  protests?  It 
would  be  the  act  of  a  madman!' 

"  'My  little  cabbage,'  returned  madame,  'we 
are  so  near  to  ruin  as  we  are,  that  a  step  nearer 
is  of  small  importance.  If  Little-Flower-of-the- 
Wood  should  come,  it  might  be  the  turning-point 
in  our  fortunes — people  would  hear  of  it,  the  Bon 
Vieux  Temps  might  become  renowned.  Yes,  we 
shall  buy  partridges,  and  peaches — and  bonbons, 
and  flowers  also,  and  we  shall  hire  a  piano!    And 


268         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

if  our  good  angel  should  indeed  send  her  to  us, 
I  swear  she  shall  pass  as  pleasant  an  evening  as 
if  she  had  gone  to  Maxim's  or  the  Abbaye!' 

"Bien!  She  convinced  him.  For  the  rest  of 
the  day  the  place  was  in  a  state  of  frenzy. 
Never  before  had  such  a  repast  been  seen  in  its 
kitchen,  never  before  had  he  cooked  with  such 
loving  care,  even  when  he  had  been  preparing  a 
dinner  of  ceremony  on  the  boulevard  Hauss- 
mann.  Madame  herself  ran  out  to  arrange  for 
the  piano.  The  floor  was  swept.  The  waiter  was 
put  into  a  clean  shirt.  Dupont  shed  tears  of 
excitement  in  his  saucepans. 

"He  served  the  two-franc  dinner  that  evening 
with  eyes  that  watched  nothing  but  the  clock. 
All  his  consciousness  now  was  absorbed  by  the 
question  whether  the  dancer  would  come  or  not. 
The  dinner  passed  somehow — it  is  to  be  assumed 
that  the  customers  grumbled,  but  in  his  suspense 
Dupont  regarded  them  with  indifference.  The 
hours  crept  by.  It  was  a  quarter  to  twelve — 
twelve  o'clock.  He  trembled  behind  the  counter 
as  if  with  ague.  Now  it  was  time  that  she  w^as 
here!  His  face  was  blanched,  his  teeth  chattered 
in  his  head.  What  if  he  had  been  hoaxed  after 
all?  Half -past  twelve!  The  sweat  ran  down 
him.  Terror  gripped  his  heart.  A  vision  of  all 
the  partridges  wasted  convulsed  his  soul.    Hark ! 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD         269 

a  carriage  stopped.  He  tottered  forward.  The 
door  opened — she  had  come! 

"Women  are  strange.  Little-Flower-of-the- 
Wood,  who  yawned  her  pretty  head  off  at  Ar- 
menonville,  was  enraptured  with  the  Bon  Vieux 
Temps.  The  rest  of  the  party  took  their  tone 
from  her,  and  everything  was  pronounced  'fun,' 
the  coarse  linen,  the  dirty  ceihng,  the  admiring 
stares  of  the  bock-drinkers.  The  lady  herself 
declared  that  she  had  'never  enjoyed  a  supper 
so  much  in  her  life,'  and  the  waiter — it  was  not 
Adolphe  then — was  dumfounded  by  a  louis  tip. 

"Figure  yourself  the  exultation  of  madame! 
'Ah,'  she  chuckled,  when  they  shut  up  shop  at 
sunrise,  'what  did  I  tell  you,  my  little  cabbage?' 
Monsieur,  as  an  editor,  will  have  observed  that 
a  woman  who  reveals  astounding  force  in  an 
emergency  may  triumph  pettily  when  the  emer- 
gency is  over? 

"  'It  remains  to  be  seen  w^hether  they  will  come 
any  more,  however,'  said  Dupont.  'Let  us  go 
to  bed.  Mon  Dieu,  how  sleepy  I  am!'  It  was 
the  first  occasion  that  the  Bon  Vieux  Temps  had 
been  open  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"It  was  the  first  occasion,  and  for  some  days 
they  feared  it  might  be  the  last.  But  no,  the 
dancer  came  again !  A  few  eccentrics  who  came 
with  her  flattened  themselves  on  having  made  a 


270        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

'discovery/  They  boasted  of  it.  Gradual^  the 
name  of  the  Bon  Vieux  Temps  became  known. 
By  the  time  that  Little-Flower-of-theWood  had 
had  enough,  there  was  a  supper  clientele  without 
her.  Folly  is  infectious,  and  in  Paris  there  are 
always  people  catching  a  fresh  craze.  Dupont 
began  to  put  up  his  prices,  and  levied  a  charge 
on  the  waiter  for  the  privilege  of  waiting  at 
supper.  The  rest  of  the  history  is  more  grave. 
,  .  .  Comment,  monsieur?  Since  you  insist — 
again  an  absinthe!" 

Janiaud  paused,  and  ran  his  dirty  fingers 
through  his  hair. 

"This  man  can  talk!"  said  the  Editor,  in  an 
undertone. 

"Gentlemen,"  resumed  the  poet,  "two  years 
passed.  Little-Flower-of-the-Wood  was  on  the 
Italian  Biviera.  The  Italian  Biviera  was  awake 
again  after  the  heat  of  the  summer — ^the  little 
town  that  had  dozed  for  many  months  began  to 
stir.  Almost  every  day  now  she  saw  new  faces 
on  the  promenade;  the  sky  was  gentler,  the  sea 
was  fairer.  And  she  sat  loathing  it  all,  craving 
to  escape  from  it  to  the  bleak  streets  of  Paris. 

"Two  winters  before,  she  had  been  told,  'Your 
lungs  will  stand  no  more  of  the  pranks  you  have 
heen  playing.     You  must  go  South,  and  keep 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD         271 

early  hours,  or '     The  shrug  said  the  rest. 

And  she  had  sold  some  of  her  diamonds  and 
obeyed.  Of  course,  it  was  an  awful  nuisance, 
but  she  must  put  up  with  it  for  a  winter  in  order 
to  get  well.  As  soon  as  she  was  well,  she  would 
go  back,  and  take  another  engagement.  She 
had  promised  herself  to  be  dancing  again  by 
May. 

"But  when  May  had  come,  she  was  no  better. 
And  travelling  was  expensive,  and  all  places 
were  alike  to  her  since  she  was  forbidden  to  re- 
turn to  Paris.  She  had  disposed  of  more  jewel- 
lery, and  looked  forward  to  the  autumn.  And 
in  the  autumn  she  had  looked  forward  to  the 
spring.    So  it  had  gone  on. 

"At  first,  while  letters  came  to  her  sometimes, 
telling  her  how  she  was  missed,  the  banishment 
had  been  alleviated;  later,  in  her  loneliness,  it 
had  grown  frightful.  Monsieur,  her  soul — ^that 
little  soul  that  pleasure  had  held  dumb — cried 
out,  under  misfortune,  like  a  homeless  child  for 
its  mother.  Her  longing  took  her  by  the  throat, 
and  the  doctor  had  difficulty  in  dissuading  her 
from  going  to  meet  death  by  the  first  train.  She 
did  not  suspect  that  she  was  doomed  in  any  case ; 
he  thought  it  kinder  to  deceive  her.  He  had 
preached  'Patience,  mademoiselle,   a  little  pa- 


272         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

tiencel'  And  she  had  wrung  her  hands,  but 
yielded — sustained  by  the  hope  of  a  future  that 
she  was  never  to  know. 

"By  this  time  the  last  of  her  jewels  was  sold, 
and  most  of  the  money  had  been  spent.  The 
fact  alarmed  her  when  she  dwelt  upon  it,  but  she 
did  not  dwell  upon  it  very  often — in  the  career 
of  Little-Flower-of-the-Wood,  so  many  financial 
crises  had  been  righted  at  the  last  moment.  No, 
although  there  was  nobody  now  to  whom  she 
could  turn  for  help,  it  was  not  anxiety  that 
bowed  her;  the  thoughts  by  which  she  was 
stricken,  as  she  sauntered  feebly  on  the  eternal 
promenade,  were  that  in  Paris  they  no  longer 
talked  of  her,  and  that  her  prettiness  had  passed 
away.  She  was  forgotten,  ugly!  The  tragedy 
of  her  exile  was  that. 

"Now  it  was  that  she  found  out  the  truth — 
she  learnt  that  there  was  no  chance  of  her  recov- 
ering. She  made  no  reproaches  for  the  lies  that 
had  been  told  her;  she  recognized  that  they  had 
been  well  meant.  All  she  said  was,  'I  am  glad 
that  it  is  not  too  late ;  I  may  see  Paris  still  before 
the  curtain  tumbles — I  shall  go  at  once.' 

"Not  many  months  of  life  remained  to  her, 
but  they  were  more  numerous  than  her  louis. 
It  was  an  unfamiliar  Paris  that  she  returned  to! 
She  had  quitted  the  Paris  of  the  frivolous  and 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD         273 

feted;  she  came  back  to  the  Paris  of  the  outcast 
poor.  The  world  that  she  had  remembered  gave 
her  no  welcome — she  peered  through  its  shut 
windows,  friendless  in  the  streets. 

''Gentlemen,  last  night  all  the  customers  had 
gone  from  the  little  Cafe  du  Bon  Vieux  Temps 
but  a  woman  in  a  shabby  opera-cloak — a  woman 
with  tragic  eyes,  and  half  a  lung.  She  sat  finger- 
ing her  glass  of  beer  absently,  though  the  clock 
over  the  desk  pointed  to  a  quarter  to  midnight, 
and  at  midnight  beer-drinkers  are  no  longer  de- 
sired in  the  Bon  Vieux  Temps.  But  she  was  a 
stranger;  it  was  concluded  that  she  didn't 
know. 

"Adolphe  approached  to  enlighten  her;  'Ma- 
dame wishes  to  order  supper?'  he  asked. 

"The  stranger  shook  her  head. 

"  'Madame  will  have  champagne?' 

"  'Don't  bother  me!'  said  the  woman. 

"Adolphe  nodded  toward  the  bock  contemp- 
tuously. 'After  midnight,  only  champagne  is 
served  here,'  he  said;  'it  is  the  rule  of  the  house.' 

"  'A  fig  for  the  rule!'  scoifed  the  woman;  'I 
am  going  to  stop.' 

"Adolphe  retired  and  sought  the  patron^  and 
Dupont  advanced  to  her  with  dignity. 

"  'Madame  is  plainly  ignorant  of  our  arrange- 
ments,' he  began;  'at  twelve  o'clock  one  cannot 


£74         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

remain  here  for  the  cost  of  a  bock — the  restaurant 
becomes  very  gay/ 

"  'So  I  beheve,'  she  said;  'I  want  to  see  the 
gaiety/ 

"  'It  also  becomes  expensive.  I  will  explain. 
During  the  evening  we  serve  a  dinner  at  two 
francs  for  our  clients  in  the  neighbourhood — and 
until  twelve  o'clock  one  may  order  bocks,  or  what 
one  wishes,  at  strictly  moderate  prices.  But  at 
twelve  o'clock  there  is  a  change;  we  have  quite 
a  different  class  of  trade.  The  world  that  amuses 
itself  arrives  here  to  sup  and  to  dance.  As  a 
supper-house,  the  Bon  Vieux  Temps  is  known 
to  all  Paris.' 

"  'One  lives  and  learns!'  said  the  woman,  ironi- 
cally; 'but  I  — ^know  more  about  the  Bon  Vieux 
Temps  than  you  seem  to  think.  I  can  tell  you 
the  history  of  its  success/ 

"  'Madame?'  Dupont  regarded  her  with 
haughty  eyes. 

"  'Three  years  ago,  monsieur,  there  was  no 
"different  class  of  trade"  at  twelve  o'clock,  and 
no  champagne.  The  dinners  at  two  francs  for 
your  clients  in  the  neighbourhood  were  all  that 
you  aspired  to.  You  did  the  cooking  yourself  in 
those  days,  and  you  did  not  sport  a  white  waist- 
coat and  a  gold  watch-chain.' 

"  'These  things  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD         275 

You  will  comply  with  the  rule,  or  you  must  go^ 
All  is  said!' 

''  'One  night  Little-Flower-of-the-Wood  had 
a  whim  to  sup  here,'  continued  the  woman  as  if 
he  had  not  spoken.  'She  had  passed  the  place 
in  her  carriage  and  fancied  its  name,  or  its  flower- 
pot— or  she  wanted  to  do  something  new.  Any- 
how, she  had  the  whim!  I  see  you  have  the  tele- 
phone behind  the  desk,  monsieur — your  little 
restaurant  was  not  on  the  telephone  when  she 
wished  to  reserve  a  table  that  night;  she  had  to 
reserve  it  by  a  messenger.' 

"  'Well,  well?'  said  Dupont,  impatiently. 

''  'But  you  were  a  shrewd  man;  you  saw  your 
luck  and  leapt  at  it — and  when  she  entered  with 
her  party,  you  received  her  like  a  queen.  You 
had  even  hired  a  piano,  you  said,  in  case  Little- 
riower-of -the- Wood  might  wish  to  play.  I  no- 
tice that  a  piano  is  in  the  corner  now — no  doubt 
you  soon  saved  the  money  to  buy  one.' 

"  'How  do  you  know  all  this,  you?'  Dupont's 
gaze  was  curious. 

"  'Her  freak  pleased  her,  and  she  came  again 
and  again— and  others  came,  just  to  see  her  here. 
Then  you  recognized  that  your  clients  from  the 
neighbourhood  were  out  of  place  among  the 
spendthrifts,  who  yielded  more  profit  in  a  night 
than  all  the  two-franc  dinners  in  a  month;  you 


276         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

said,  "At  twelve  o'clock  there  shall  be  no  more 
bocks,  only  champagne !"  I  had  made  your  res- 
taurant famous — and  you  introduced  the  great 
rule  that  you  now  command  me  to  obey.' 

"'You?  You  are  Little  -  Flower  -  of  -  the - 
Wood?' 

"  'Yes,  it  was  I  who  did  it  for  you,'  she  said 
quietly.  'And  the  restaurant  flourished  after 
Little-Flower-of-the-Wood  had  faded.  Well, 
to-night  I  want  to  spend  an  hour  here  again,  for 
the  sake  of  what  I  used  to  be.  Time  brings 
changes,  you  understand,  and  I  cannot  conform 
with  the  great  rule.'  She  opened  the  opera- 
cloak,  trembling,  and  he  saw  that  beneath  it 
Little-Flower-of-the-Wood  was  in  rags. 

"  'I  am  very  poor  and  ill,'  she  went  on.  'I 
have  been  away  in  the  South  for  more  than  two 
years ;  they  told  me  I  ought  to  stop  there,  but  I 
had  to  see  Paris  once  more !  What  does  it  mat- 
ter? I  shall  finish  here  a  little  sooner,  that  is  all. 
I  lodge  close  by,  in  a  garret.  The  garret  is  very 
dirty,  but  I  hear  the  muisc  from  the  Bal  Tabarin 
across  the  way.  I  like  that — I  persuade  myself 
I  am  living  the  happy  life  I  used  to  have.  When 
I  am  tossing  sleepless,  I  hear  the  noise  and 
laughter  of  the  crowd  coming  out,  and  blow 
kisses  to  them  in  the  dark.  You  see,  although 
one  is  forgotten,  one  cannot  forget.    I  pray  that 


LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD         277 

their  laughter  will  come  up  to  me  right  at  the 
end,  before  I  die.' 

"  'You  cannot  afford  to  enter  Tabarin's?'  fal- 
tered Dupont;  'you  are  so  stony  as  that?' 

"  'So  stony  as  that!'  she  said.  'And  I  repeat 
that  to-night  I  want  to  pass  an  hour  in  the  midst 
of  the  life  I  loved.  Monsieur,  remember  how 
you  came  to  make  your  rule!  Break  it  for  me 
once!    Let  me  stay  here  to-night  for  a  bock!' 

"Dupont  is  a  restaurateur,  but  he  is  also  a 
man.  He  took  both  her  hands,  and  the  waiters 
were  astonished  to  perceive  that  the  patron  was 
crying. 

"  'My  child,'  he  stammered,  'you  will  sup  here 
as  my  guest.' 

"Adolphe  set  before  her  champagne  that  she 
sipped  feverishly,  and  a  supper  that  she  was  too 
ill  to  eat.  And  cabs  came  rattling  from  the  Bou- 
levard with  boisterous  men  and  women  who  no 
longer  recalled  her  name — and  with  other  'Little- 
Flower  s-of- the- Wood,'  who  had  sprung  up  since 
her  day. 

"The  woman  who  used  to  reign  there  sat 
among  them  looking  back,  until  the  last  jest  was 
bandied,  and  the  last  bottle  was  drained.  Then 
she  bade  her  host  'good-bj^e,'  and  crawled  home 
— ^to  the  garret  where  she  'heard  the  music  of  the 
ball' ;  the  garret  where  she  'prayed  that  the  laugh- 


278         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

ter  would  come  up  to  her  right  at  the  end,  before 
she  died.'  " 

Janiaud  finished  the  absinthe,  and  lurched  to 
his  feet.    "That's  aU." 

"Great  Scott,"  said  the  Editor,  "I  wish  he 
could  write  in  English!  But — but  it's  very  piti- 
able, she  may  starve  there;  something  ought  to 
be  done.  .  .  ,  Can  you  tell  us  where  she  is  living, 
monsieur?" 

The  poet  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Is  there 
no  satisfying  you?  You  asked  me  for  the  history 
of  the  Bon  Vieux  Temps,  and  there  are  things 
that  even  I  do  not  know.  However,  I  have  done 
my  best.  I  cannot  say  where  the  lady  is  living, 
but  I  can  tell  you  where  she  was  born."  He 
pointed,  with  a  drunken  laugh,  to  his  glass: 
"There  !'^ 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE 

Lajeunie^  the  luckless  novelist,  went  to  Pitou, 
the  unrecognized  composer,  saying,  "I  have  a 
superb  scenario  for  a  revue.  Let  us  join  forces! 
I  promise  you  we  shall  make  a  fortune ;  we  shall 
exchange  our  attics  for  first  floors  of  fashion, 
and  be  wealthy  enough  to  wear  sable  overcoats 
and  Panama  hats  at  the  same  time."  In  ordinary 
circumstances,  of  course,  Pitou  would  have  col- 
laborated only  with  Tricotrin,  but  Tricotrin  was 
just  then  engrossed  by  a  tragedy  in  blank  verse 
and  seven  acts,  and  he  said  to  them,  ''Make 
a  fortune  together  by  all  means,  my  conu^ades; 
I  should  be  unreasonable  if  I  raised  objections 
to  having  rich  friends." 

Accordingly  the  pair  worked  like  heroes  of 
biography,  and,  after  vicissitudes  innum  .rable, 
Patatras  was  practically  accepted  at  La  Coupole. 
The  manager  even  hinted  that  Fifi  Blondette 
might  be  seen  in  the  leading  part.  La  Coupole, 
and  Blondette!  Pitou  and  Lajeunie  could 
scarcely  credit  their  ears.  To  be  sure,  she  was 
no  actress,  and  her  voice  was  rather  unpleasant, 

279 


280         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

and  she  would  probably  want  everything  rewrit- 
ten fifteen  times  before  it  satisfied  her;  but  she 
was  a  beautiful  woman  and  all  Paris  paid  to  look 
at  her  when  she  graced  a  stage;  and  she  had  just 
ruined  Prince  Czernowitz,  which  gave  her  name 
an  additional  value.  ''Upon  my  word,"  gasped 
Pitou,  "our  luck  seems  as  incredible,  my  dear 
Lajeunie,  as  the  plot  of  any  of  your  novels! 
Come  and  have  a  drink!" 

"I  feel  like  Rodolphe  at  the  end  of  La  Vie 
de  Boheme/^  he  confided  to  Tricotrin  in  their 
garret  one  winter's  night,  as  they  went  supper- 
less  to  their  beds.  "Now  that  the  days  of  priva- 
tion are  past,  I  recall  them  with  something  like 
regret.  The  shock  of  the  laundress's  totals,  the 
meagre  dinners  at  the  Bel  Avenir,  these  things 
have  a  fascination  now  that  I  part  from  them.  I 
do  not  wish  to  sound  ungrateful,  but  I  cannot 
help  wondering  if  my  millions  will  impair  the 
taste  of  life  to  me." 

"To  me  they  will  make  it  taste  much  better," 
said  Tricotrin,  "for  I  shall  have  somebody  to 
borrow  money  from,  and  I  shall  get  enough 
blankets.  Brrr!  how  cold  I  am!  Besides,  you 
need  not  lose  touch  with  Montmartre  because  you 
are  celebrated — you  can  invite  us  all  to  your 
magnificent  abode.  Also,  you  can  dine  at  the  Bel 
Avenir  still,  if  sentiment  pulls  you  that  way." 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE         281 

"I  shall  certainly  dine  there,"  averred  Pitou. 
"And  I  shall  buy  a  house  for  my  parents,  with 
a  peacock  and  some  deer  on  the  lawn.  At  the 
same  time,  a  triumph  is  not  without  its  pathos.  I 
see  my  return  to  the  Bel  Avenir,  the  old  affec- 
tions in  my  heart,  the  old  greetings  on  my  lips — 
and  I  see  the  fellows  constrained  and  formal  in 
my  presence.  I  see  madame  apologising  for  the 
cuisine,  instead  of  reminding  me  that  my  credit 
is  exhausted,  and  the  waiter  polishing  my  glass, 
instead  of  indicating  the  cheapest  item  on  the 
menu.  Such  changes  hurt!"  He  was  much 
moved.  "A  fortune  is  not  everything,"  he 
sighed,  forgetting  that  his  pockets  were  as  empty 
as  his  stomach.  "Poverty  yielded  joys  which  I 
no  longer  know." 

The  poet  embraced  him  with  emotion.  "I 
rejoice  to  find  that  Fame  has  not  spoilt  your 
nature,"  he  cried;  and  he,  too,  forgot  the  emptj^ 
pockets,  and  that  the  contract  from  La  Coupole 
had  yet  to  come.  "Yes,  we  had  hard  times 
together,  you  and  I,  and  /  am  still  a  nobody, 
but  we  shall  be  chums  as  long  as  we  live.  I  feel 
that  you  can  unbosom  yourself  to  me,  the  poor 
bohemian,  more  jfreely  than  to  any  Immortal 
with  whom  you  hobnob  in  scenes  of  splendour." 

^'Oh  indeed,  indeed!"  assented  Pitou,  weeping. 
"You  are  as  dear  to  me  now  as  in  the  days  of  our 


282         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

struggles ;  I  should  curse  my  affluence  if  it  made 
you  doubt  that!  Good-night,  my  brother;  God 
bless  you." 

He  lay  between  the  ragged  sheets ;  and  half  an 
hour  crept  by. 

"Gustave!" 

"Well?"  said  Tricotrin,  looking  towards  the 
other  bed.    '*Not  asleep  yet?" 

"I  cannot  sleep — hunger  is  gnawing  at  me." 

"Ah,  what  a  relentless  realist  is  this  hunger," 
complained  the  poet,  "how  it  destroys  one's 
illusions!" 

"Is  there  nothing  to  eat  in  the  cupboard?" 

"Not  a  crumb — I  am  ravenous  myself.  But  I 
recall  a  broken  cigarette  in  my  waistcoat  pocket ; 
let  us  cut  it  in  halves !" 

They  strove,  shivering,  to  appease  their  pangs 
by  slow  whiffs  of  a  Caporal,  and  while  they 
supped  in  this  unsatisfactory  fashion,  there  came 
an  impetuous  knocking  at  the  street  door. 

"It  must  be  that  L§l  Coupole  has  sent  you  a 
sack  of  gold  to  go  on  with!"  Tricotrin  opined. 
"Put  your  head  out  and  see." 

"It  is  Lajeunie,"  announced  the  composer, 
withdrawing  from  the  window  with  chattering 
teeth.  "What  the  devil  can  he  want?  I  sup- 
pose I  must  go  down  and  let  him  in." 

"Perhaps  we  can  get  some  more  cigarettes 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE  283 

from  him,"  said  Tricotrin;  "it  might  have  been 
worse." 

But  when  the  novelist  appeared,  the  first  thing 
he  stammered  was,  ''Give  me  a  cigarette,  one  of 
you  fellows,  or  I  shall  die!" 

''Well,  then,  dictate  your  last  wishes  to  us!" 
returned  Pitou,  "Do  you  come  here  under  the 
impression  that  the  house  is  a  tobacconist's? 
What  is  the  matter  with  you,  what  is  up?" 

"For  three  hours,"  snuffled  Lajeunie,  who 
looked  half  frozen  and  kept  shuddering  violently, 
"for  three  hours  I  have  been  pacing  the  streets, 
questioning  whether  I  should  break  the  news  to 
you  to-night  or  not.  In  one  moment  I  told  my- 
self that  it  would  be  better  to  withhold  it  till  the 
morning;  in  the  next  I  felt  that  you  had  a  right 
to  hear  it  without  delay.  Hour  after  hour,  in 
the  snow,  I  turned  the  matter  over  in  my  mind, 
and " 

"Mon  Dieu!"  exclaimed  Pitou,  "is  this  an  in- 
terminable serial  at  so  much  a  column?  Come  to 
the  point !" 

Lajeunie  beat  his  breast,  "I  am  distracted," 
he  faltered,  "I  am  no  longer  master  of  myself. 
Listen!  It  occurred  to  me  this  evening  that  I 
might  do  worse  than  pay  a  visit  to  La  Coupole 
and  inquire  if  a  date  was  fixed  yet  for  the  re- 
hearsals to  begin.     Well,  I  went!     For  a  long 


2S4i         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

time  I  could  obtain  no  interview,  I  could  obtain 
no  appointment — the  messenger  came  back  with 
evasive  answers.  I  am  naturally  quick  at  smell- 
ing a  rat — I  have  the  detective's  instinct — and  I 
felt  that  there  was  something  wrong.  My  heart 
began  to  fail  me." 

"For  mercy's  sake,"  groaned  his  unhappy 
collaborator,  ''explode  the  bomb  and  bury  my 
fragments!  Enough  of  these  literary  introduc- 
tions.   Did  you  see  the  manager,  or  didn't  you?'* 

"I  did  see  the  miscreant,  the  bandit-king,  I 
saw  him  in  the  street.  For  I  was  not  to  be  put 
off — I  waited  till  he  came  out.  Well,  my  friend, 
to  compress  the  tragedy  into  one  act,  our  hope 
is  shattered — Patatras  is  again  refused!" 

"Oh,  heavens!"  moaned  Pitou,  and  fell  back 
upon  the  mattress  as  white  as  death. 

"What  explanation  did  he  make?"  cried 
Tricotrin;  "what  is  the  reason?" 

"The  reason  is  that  Blondette  is  an  imbecile — 
she  finds  the  part  'unworthy  of  her  talents.'  A 
part  on  which  I  have  lavished  all  the  wealth  of 
my  invention — she  finds  it  beneath  her,  she  said 
she  would  'break  her  contract  rather  than  play 
it/  Well,  Blondette  is  the  trump-card  of  his 
season — he  would  throw  over  the  whole  of  the 
Academy  sooner  than  lose  Blondette.  Since  she 
objects   to  figuring   in   Patatras,   Patatras   is 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE         285 

waste-paper  to  him.  Alas!  who  would  be  an 
author?  I  would  rather  shovel  coke,  or  cut  corns 
for  a  living.  He  himself  admitted  that  there 
was  no  fault  to  find  with  the  revue,  but,  'You 
know  well,  monsieur,  that  we  must  humour 
Blondette !'  I  asked  him  if  he  would  try  to  bring 
her  to  her  senses,  but  it  seems  that  there  have 
been  a  dozen  discussions  already — ^he  is  sick  of 
the  subject.  Now  it  is  settled — our  manuscript 
will  be  banged  back  at  us  and  we  may  rip!" 

''Oh,  my  mother!"  moaned  Pitou.  "Oh,  the 
peacock  and  the  deer!" 

"What's  that  you  say?"  asked  Lajeunie.  "Are 
you  positive  that  you  haven't  got  a  cigarette  any- 
where?" 

"I  am  positive  that  I  have  nothing,"  pro- 
claimed Pitou  vehemently,  "nothing  in  life  but 
a  broken  heart !  Oh,  you  did  quite  right  to  come 
to  me,  but  now  leave  me — leave  me  to  perish. 
I  have  no  words,  I  am  stricken.  The  next  time 
you  see  me  it  will  be  in  the  Morgue.  Mon  Dieu, 
that  beautiful  wretch,  that  creature  without  con- 
science, or  a  note  in  her  voice — by  a  shrug  of  her 
elegant  shoulders  she  condemns  me  to  the  Seine!" 

"Ah,  do  not  give  way!"  exclaimed  Tricotrin, 
leaping  out  of  bed.  "Courage,  my  poor  fellow, 
courage!  Are  there  not  other  managers  in 
Paris?" 


286         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"There  are — and  Patatras  has  been  refused  by 
them.  La  Coupole  was  our  last  chance,  and  it 
has  collapsed.  We  have  no  more  to  expect — 
it  is  all  over.    Is  it  not  so,  Lajeunie?" 

"All  over,"  sobbed  Lajeunie,  bowing  his  head 
on  the  washhand-stand.    ''Patatras  is  dead!" 

Then  for  some  seconds  the  only  sound  to  be 
heard  in  the  attic  was  the  laboured  breathing  of 
the  three  young  men's  despair. 

At  last  Tricotrin,  drawing  himself  upright  in 
his  tattered  nightshirt,  said,  with  a  gesture  of 
dignity,  "Well,  the  case  may  justify  me — in  the 
present  situation  it  appears  to  me  that  I  have 
the  right  to  use  my  influence  with  Blondette !" 

A  signal  from  Mars  could  not  have  caused  a 
more  profound  sensation.  Pitou  and  Lajeunie 
regarded  him  with  open  mouths.  "Your  influ- 
ence?" echoed  Pitou;  "your  influence?  I  was  not 
aware  that  you  had  ever  met  her." 

"No,"  rejoined  the  poet  darkly;  "I  have  not 
met  her.  But  there  are  circumstances  in  my  life 
which  entitle  me  to  demand  a  service  of  this 
triumphant  woman.  Do  not  question  me,  my 
friends — what  I  shall  say  to  her  must  remain  a 
secret  even  from  you.  I  declare,  however,  that 
nobody  has  a  stronger  claim  on  her  than  Gustave 
Tricotrin,  the  poor  penny-a-liner  whom  she  does 
not  know!" 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE  287 

The  sudden  intervention — to  say  nothing  of  its 
literary  flavour — so  excited  the  collaborators  that 
they  nearly  wrung  his  hands  off:  and  Lajeunie, 
who  recognised  a  promising  beginning  for  an- 
other serial,  was  athirst  for  further  hints. 

''She  has  perhaps  committed  a  murder,  that 
fair  fiend?"  he  inquired  rapturously. 

''Perhaps/'  replied  Tricotrin. 

"In  that  case  she  dare  refuse  you  nothing." 

"Why  not,  since  I  have  never  heard  of  it?" 

"I  was  only  jesting,"  said  the  novelist.  "In 
sober  earnest,  I  conjecture  that  you  are  married 
to  her,  like  Athos  to  Miladi.  As  you  stand  there, 
with  that  grave  air,  you  strongly  resemble 
Athos." 

"Nevertheless,  Athos  did  not  marry  a  woman 
to  whom  he  had  not  spoken,  and  I  repeat  that 
I  have  never  spoken  to  Blondette  in  my  life." 

"Well,"  said  Lajeunie,  "I  have  too  much  re- 
spect for  your  wishes  to  show  any  curiosity. 
Besides,  by  an  expert  the  mystery  is  to  be  divined 
— before  the  story  opens,  you  rendered  her  some 
silent  aid,  and  your  name  will  remind  her  of  a 
great  heroism?" 

"I  have  never  rendered  her  any  aid  at  all," 
demurred  Tricotrin,  "and  there  is  not  the 
slightest  reason  to  suppose  that  she  has  ever 
heard  my  name.     But  again,  I  have  an  incon- 


S88         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

testable  right  to  demand  a  service  of  her,  and  for 
the  sake  of  the  affection  I  bear  you  both,  I  shall 
go  and  do  it." 

"When  Tricotrin  thinks  that  he  is  living  in 
The  Three  Musketeers  it  is  useless  to  try  to  pump 
him,"  said  Pitou;  "let  us  content  ourselves  with 
what  we  are  told!  Is  it  not  enough?  Our  fate 
is  in  Blondette's  hands,  and  he  is  in  a  position 
to-  ask  a  favour  of  her.  What  more  can  we 
want?" 

But  he  could  not  resist  putting  a  question  on 
his  own  account  after  Lajeunie  had  skipped 
doTMistairs. 

"Gustave,  why  did  you  never  mention  to  me 
that  you  knew  Blondette?" 

"Morbleu!  how  often  must  I  say  that  I  do 
not  know  her?" 

"Well — how  shall  I  express  it? — ^that  some 
episode  in  your  career  gave  you  a  claim  on  her 
consideration?" 

"Because,  by  doing  so,  I  should  have  both 
violated  a  confidence,  and  re-opened  a  wound 
v,hich  still  burns,"  said  Tricotrin,  more  like 
Athos  than  ever.  "Only  the  urgency  of  your 
need,  my  comrade,  could  induce  me  to  take  the 
course  that  I  project.  Now  let  me  sleep,  for 
to-morrow  I  must  have  all  my  wits !" 

It  was,   however,   five  o'clock   already,   and 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE         289 

before  either  of  them  had  slept  long,  the  street 
was  clattering  with  feet  on  their  way  to  the  laun- 
dries, and  vendors  of  delicacies  were  bawling  sug- 
gestions for  appetising  breakfasts. 

"Not  only  do  the  shouts  of  these  monsters 
disturb  my  slumber,  but  they  taunt  my  starva- 
tion!" yawned  the  poet.  ''Yet,  now  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  I  have  an  appointment  with  a  man 
who  has  sworn  to  lend  me  a  franc,  so  perhaps  I 
had  better  get  up  before  he  is  likely  to  have 
spent  it.  I  shall  call  upon  Blondette  in  the 
afternoon,  when  she  returns  from  her  drive. 
What  is  your  own  programme?" 

"My  first  attempt  will  be  at  a  cremerie  in  the 
rue  St.  Rustique,  where  I  am  inclined  to  think  I 
may  get  credit  for  milk  and  a  roll  if  I  swagger." 

"Capital,"  said  Tricotrin;  "things  are  looking 
up  with  us  both !  And  if  I  raise  the  franc,  there 
will  be  ten  sous  for  you  to  squander  on  a 
recherche  luncheon.  Meet  me  in  the  place  Dan- 
court  in  an  hour's  time.    So  long!" 

Never  had  mademoiselle  Blondette  looked 
more  captivating  than  when  her  carriage  brought 
her  back  that  day.  She  wore — but  why  particu- 
larise? Suffice  it,  that  she  had  just  been  photo- 
graphed. As  she  stepped  to  the  pavement  she 
was  surprised  by  the  obeisance  of  a  shabby  young 
man,  who  said  in  courtly  tones,  "Mademoiselle, 


290         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

may  I  beg  the  honour  of  an  interview?  I  came 
from  La  Coupole."  Having  bestowed  a  glance 
of  annoyance  on  him,  she  invited  him  to  ascend 
the  stairs,  and  a  minute  later  Tricotrin  was 
privileged  to  watch  her  take  off  her  hat  before 
the  mirror. 

'*Well?"  she  inquired,  "what's  the  trouble  there 
now;  what  do  they  want?" 

"So  far  as  I  know,  mademoiselle,"  returned  the 
intruder  deferentially,  "they  want  nothing  but 
your  beauty  and  your  genius ;  but  I  myself  want 
infinitely  more — I  want  your  attention  and  your 
pity.  Let  me  explain  without  delay  that  I  do 
not  represent  the  Management,  and  that  when 
I  said  I  came  from  La  Coupole  I  should  have 
added  that  I  did  not  come  from  the  interior." 

"Qa,  par  exemple!"  she  said  sharply.  "Who 
are  you,  then?" 

"I  am  Tricotrin,  mademoiselle — Gustave 
Tricotrin,  at  your  feet.  I  have  two  comrades, 
the  parents  of  Patatras;  you  have  refused  to  play 
in  it,  and  I  fear  they  will  destroy  themselves.  I 
come  to  beg  you  to  save  their  lives." 

"Monsieur,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  and  her  eyes 
were  brilliant  with  temper,  "all  that  I  have  to 
say  about  Patatras  I  have  said!  The  part  gave 
me  the  hump." 

"And  yet,"  continued  the  suppliant  firmly,  "I 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE         291 

hope  to  induce  you  to  accept  it.  I  am  an  author 
myself,  and  I  assure  you  that  it  teems  with  op- 
portunities that  you  may  have  overlooked  in  a 
casual  reading." 

"It  is  stupid!" 

*'As  you  would  play  it,  I  predict  that  it  would 
make  an  epoch." 

"And  the  music  is  no  good." 

"If  I  may  venture  to  differ  from  you,  the 
music  is  haunting — the  composer  is  my  lifelong 
friend." 

"I  appreciate  the  argument,"  she  said,  with 
fine  irony.  "But  you  will  scarcely  expect  me  to 
plav  a  part  that  I  don't  like  in  order  to  please 
you!" 

"Frankly,  that  is  just  what  I  do  expect,"  re- 
plied the  poet.  "I  think  you  will  consent  for  my 
sake." 

"Oh,  really?  For  your  sake?  Would  you 
mind  mentioning  why,  before  you  go?" 

"Because,  mademoiselle,"  said  Tricotrin,  fold- 
ing his  arms,  "in  years  gone  by,  you  ruined  me!" 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  gasped,  and  she  did  not 
doubt  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  a  lunatic. 

"Do  not  rush  to  the  bell!"  he  begged.  "If  it 
will  allay  your  panic,  I  will  open  the  door  and 
address  you  from  the  landing.  I  am  not  insane, 
and  I  solemnly  assert  that  I  am  one  of  the  men 


292         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

who  have  had  the  honour  of  being  ruined  by  you.'^ 
"I  have  never  seen  you  in  my  hfe  before!" 
'T  know  it.  I  even  admit  that  I  attach  no 
blame  to  you  in  the  matter.  Nevertheless,  you 
cost  me  two  thousand  five  hundred  and  forty- 
three  francs,  and — as  you  may  judge  by  my  cos- 
tume— I  do  not  own  the  Credit  Lyonnais.  If 
you  will  deign  to  hear  my  story,  I  guarantee  that 
it  will  convince  you.  Do  you  permit  me  to  pro- 
ceed?" 

The  beauty  nodded  wonderingly,  and  the 
shabby  young  man  continued  in  the  following 
words : 

"As  I  have  said,  I  am  an  author;  I  shall  'live' 
by  my  poetry,  but  I  exist  by  my  prose — in  fact, 
I  turn  my  pen  to  whatever  promises  a  dinner, 
be  it  a  sonnet  to  the  Spring,  or  a  testimonial  to 
a  hair  restorer.  One  summer,  when  dinners  had 
been  even  more  elusive  than  usual,  I  conceived 
the  idea  of  calling  attention  to  my  talents  by 
means  of  an  advertisement.  In  reply,  I  received 
a  note  bidding  me  be  on  the  third  step  of  the 
Madeleine  at  four  o'clock  the  following  day,  and 
my  correspondent  proved  to  be  a  gentleman 
whose  elegant  apparel  proclaimed  him  a  Parisian 
of  the  Boulevard. 

"  'You  are  monsieur  Gustave  Tricotrin?'  he 
inquired. 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE  293 

"  'I  have  that  misfortune,  monsieur/  said  I. 
We  adjourned  to  a  cafe,  and  after  a  preliminary- 
chat,  from  which  he  deduced  that  I  was  a  person 
of  discretion,  he  made  me  a  proposal. 

''He  said,  'Monsieur  Tricotrin,  it  is  evident 
that  you  and  I  were  designed  to  improve  each 
other's  condition;  your  dilemma  is  that,  being 
unknown,  you  cannot  dispose  of  your  stories — 
mine  is  that,  being  known  so  well,  I  am  asked 
for  more  stories  than  I  can  possibly  write.  I 
suggest  that  you  shall  write  some  for  me.  I  will 
sign  them,  they  will  be  paid  for  in  accordance 
with  my  usual  terms,  and  you  shall  receive  a 
generous  share  of  the  swag.  I  need  not  impress 
upon  you  that  I  am  speaking  in  the  strictest 
confidence,  and  that  you  must  never  breathe  a 
word  about  our  partnership,  even  to  the  wife  of 
your  bosom/ 

"  'Monsieur,'  I  returned,  'I  have  no  wife  to 
breathe  to,  and  my  bosom  is  unsurpassed  as  a 
receptacle  for  secrets.' 

"  'Good,'  he  said.  'Well,  without  beating 
about  the  bush,  I  will  tell  you  who  I  am.'  He 
then  uttered  a  name  that  made  me  jump,  and 
before  we  parted  it  was  arranged  that  I  should 
supply  him  with  a  tale  immediately  as  a  speci- 
men of  my  abihties. 

"This  tale,  which  I  accomplished  the  same 


294         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

evening,  pleased  him  so  well  that  he  forthwith 
gave  me  an  order  for  two  more.  I  can  create  a 
plot  almost  as  rapidly  as  a  debt,  and  before  long 
I  had  delivered  manuscripts  to  him  in  such  whole- 
sale quantities  that  if  I  had  been  paid  cash  for 
them,  I  should  have  been  in  a  position  to  paint 
the  Butte  the  richest  shade  of  red.  It  was  his 
custom,  however,  to  make  excuses  and  payments 
on  account,  and  as  we  were  capital  friends  by 
now,  I  never  demurred. 

"Well,  things  went  on  in  this  fashion  until  one 
day  he  hinted  to  me  that  I  had  provided  him  with 
enough  manuscripts  to  last  him  for  two  years; 
his  study  was  lumbered  with  evidence  of  my 
talent,  and  his  market,  after  all,  was  not  un- 
limited. He  owed  me  then  close  upon  three 
thousand  francs,  and  it  was  agreed  that  he  should 
wipe  the  debt  out  by  weekly  instalments.  Enfin, 
I  was  content  enough — I  foresaw  an  ample  in- 
come for  two  years  to  come,  and  renewed  leisure 
to  win  immortality  by  my  epics.  I  trust  that  my 
narrative  does  not  fatigue  you,  mademoiselle?" 

"What  has  it  all  to  do  with  me,  however?" 
asked  the  lady. 

"You  shall  hear.  Though  the  heroine  comes 
on  late,  she  brings  the  house  down  when  she 
enters.    For  a  few  weeks  my  patron  fulfilled  his 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE          295 

compact  with  tolerable  punctuality,  but  I  never 
failed  to  notice  when  we  met  that  he  was  a  prey- 
to  some  terrible  grief.  At  last,  when  he  had 
reduced  the  sum  to  two  thousand  five  hundred 
and  forty-three  francs — ^the  figures  will  be  found 
graven  on  my  heart — he  confided  in  me,  he  made 
me  a  strange  request;  he  exclaimed: 

"  'Tricotrin,  I  am  the  most  miserable  of  men!' 

"  'Poor  fellow!'  I  responded.  'It  is,  of  course, 
a  woman?' 

"  'Precisely,'  he  answered.  'I  adore  her.  Her 
beauty  is  incomparable,  her  fascinations  are  un- 
paralleled, her  intelligence  is  unique.  She  has 
only  one  blemish — she  is  mercenary.' 

"  'After  all,  perfection  would  be  tedious,'  I 
said. 

"  'You  are  a  man  of  sensibility,  you  under- 
stand!' he  cried.  'Her  tastes  have  been  a  con- 
siderable strain  on  my  resources,  and  in  conse- 
quence my  affairs  have  become  involved.  Now 
that  I  am  in  difficulties,  she  is  giving  me  the 
chuck.  I  have  implored  and  besought,  I  have 
worn  myself  out  in  appeals,  but  her  firmness  is 
as  striking  as  her  other  gifts.  There  remains 
only  one  chance  for  me — a  letter  so  impassioned 
that  it  shall  awake  her  pity.  I,  as  I  tell  you, 
am  exhausted;  I  can  no  longer  plead,  no  longer 


^96        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

phrase,  I  am  a  wreck!  Will  you,  as  a  friend, 
as  a  poet,  compose  such  a  letter  and  give  it  to 
me  to  copy?'  ^ 

"Could  I  hesitate?  I  drove  my  pen  for  him 
till  daybreak.  All  the  yearnings  of  my  own 
nature,  all  the  romance  of  my  fiery  youth,  I 
poured  out  in  this  appeal  to  a  siren  whom  I  had 
never  seen,  and  whose  name  I  did  not  know.  I 
was  distraught,  pathetic,  humorous,  and  sub- 
lime by  turns.  Subtle  gleams  of  wit  flashed  artis- 
tically across  the  lurid  landscape  of  despair.  I 
reminded  her  of  scenes  of  happiness — ^vaguely, 
because  I  had  no  details  to  elaborate;  the  rem- 
iniscences, however,  were  so  touching  that  I  came 
near  to  believing  in  them.  Mindful  of  her 
solitary  blemish,  I  referred  to  'embarrassments 
now  almost  at  an  end' ;  and  so  profoundly  did  I 
affect  myself,  that  while  I  wrote  that  I  was 
weeping,  it  was  really  true.  Well,  when  I  saw 
the  gentleman  again  he  embraced  me  like  a 
brother.  'Your  letter  was  a  masterpiece,'  he  told 
me;  'it  has  done  the  trick!' 

"Mademoiselle,  I  do  not  wish  to  say  who  he 
was,  and  as  you  have  known  many  celebrities, 
and  had  many  love-letters,  you  may  not  guess. 
But  the  woman  was  you !  And  if  I  had  been  a 
better  business  man,  I  should  have  written  less 


A  MIRACLE  IN  MONTMARTRE         297 

movingly,  for  I  recognised,  even  during  my 
inspiration,  that  it  was  against  my  interests  to 
reunite  him  to  you.  I  was  an  artist;  I  thrilled 
your  heart,  I  restored  you  to  his  arms — and  you 
had  the  two  thousand  five  hundred  and  forty- 
three  francs  that  would  otherwise  have  come  to 
me!  Never  could  I  extract  another  sou  from 
him!" 

As  Tricotrin  concluded  his  painful  history, 
mademoiselle  Blondette  seemed  so  much  amused 
that  he  feared  she  had  entirely  missed  its 
pathos.  But  his  misgiving  was  relieved  when  she 
spoke. 

*'It  seems  to  me  I  have  been  expensive  to  you, 
monsieur,"  she  said;  "and  you  have  certainly  had 
nothing  for  your  money.  Since  this  revue — 
which  I  own  that  I  have  merely  glanced  at — is 
the  apple  of  your  eye,  I  promise  to  read  it  with 
more  attention." 

A  month  later  Patatras  was  produced  at  La 
Coupole  after  all,  and  no  one  applauded  its  per- 
formance more  enthusiastically  than  the  poet, 
who  subsequently  went  to  supper  arm-in-arm 
with  its  creators. 

"Mon  vieux,"  said  the  elated  pair,  "we  will  not 
ask  again  by  what  means  you  accomplished  this 


S98         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

miracle,  but  let  it  teach  you  a  lesson !  Tonight's 
experience  proves  that  nothing  is  beyond  your 
power  if  you  resolve  to  succeed!" 

"It  proves/'  replied  Tricotrin,  ''that  Blon- 
dette's  first  impression  was  correct,  for,  between 
ourselves,  my  children,  Patatras  is  no  shakes." 

Nevertheless,  Lajeunie  and  Pitou  wore  laurels 
in  Montmartre;  and  one  is  happy  to  say  that 
their  fees  raised  the  young  collaborators  from 
privation  to  prosperity — ^thanks  to  Blondette's 
attractions — for  nearly  three  weeks. 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN 

My  Confessions  must  begin  when  I  was  four 
years  old  and  recovering  from  swollen  glands. 
As  I  grew  well,  my  twin-brother,  Gregoire,  who 
was  some  minutes  younger,  was  put  to  bed  with 
the  same  complaint. 

"What  a  misfortune,"  exclaimed  our  mother, 
"that  Silvestre  is  no  sooner  convalescent  than 
Gregoire  falls  ill!" 

The  doctor  answered:  "It  astonishes  me, 
madame  Lapalme,  that  you  were  not  prepared 
for  it^ — since  the  children  are  twins,  the  thing  was 
to  be  foreseen ;  when  the  elder  throws  the  malady 
off,  the  younger  naturally  contracts  it.  Among 
twins  it  is  nearly  always  so." 

And  it  always  proved  to  be  so  with  Gregoire 
and  me.  No  sooner  did  I  throw  off  whooping- 
cough  than  Gregoire  began  to  whoop,  though  I 
was  at  home  at  Vernon  and  he  was  staying  with 
our  grandmother  at  Tours.  If  I  had  to  be  taken 
to  a  dentist,  Gregoire  would  soon  afterwards  be 
howling  with  toothache;  as  often  as  I  indulged 
in  the  pleasures  of  the  table  Gregoire  had  a 

299 


800         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

bilious  attack.  The  influence  I  exercised  upon 
him  was  so  remarkable  that  once  when  my  bi- 
cycle ran  away  with  me  and  broke  my  arm,  our 
mother  consulted  three  medical  men  as  to  whether 
Gregoire's  bicycle  was  bound  to  run  away  with 
him  too.  Indeed,  my  brother  was  distinctly  ap- 
prehensive of  it  himself. 

Of  course,  the  medical  men  explained  that  he 
was  susceptible  to  any  abnormal  physical  or 
mental  condition  of  mine,  not  to  the  vagaries 
of  my  bicycle.  "As  an  example,  madame,  if  the 
elder  of  two  twins  were  killed  in  a  railway  acci- 
dent, it  would  be  no  reason  for  thinking  that  an 
accident  must  befall  a  train  by  which  the  younger 
travelled.  What  sympathy  can  there  be  between 
locomotives?  But  if  the  elder  were  to  die  by 
his  own  hand,  there  is  a  strong  probability  that 
the  younger  would  commit  suicide  also." 

However,  I  have  not  died  by  my  own  hand,  so 
Gregoire  has  had  nothing  to  reproach  me  for  on 
that  score.  As  to  other  grounds — ^well,  there  is 
much  to  be  said  on  both  sides ! 

To  speak  truly,  that  beautiful  devotion  for 
which  twins  are  so  celebrated  in  drama  and 
romance  has  never  existed  between  my  brother 
and  myself.  Nlor  was  this  my  fault.  I  was  of  a 
highly  sensitive  disposition,  and  from  my  earliest 
years  it  was  impressed  upon  me  that  Gregoire 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        301 

regarded  me  in  the  light  of  a  grievance.  I  could 
not  help  having  illnesses,  yet  he  would  upbraid 
me  for  taking  them.  Then,  too,  he  was  always 
our  mother's  favourite,  and  instead  of  there  be- 
ing caresses  and  condolence  for  me  when  I  was 
indisposed,  there  was  nothing  but  grief  for  the 
indisposition  that  I  was  about  to  cause  Gregoire. 
This  wounded  me. 

Again  at  college.  I  shall  not  pretend  that  I 
was  a  bookworm,  or  that  I  shared  Gregoire's 
ambitions;  on  the  contrary,  the  world  beyond 
the  walls  looked  such  a  jolly  place  to  me  that  the 
mere  sight  of  a  classroom  would  sometimes  fill 
me  with  abhorrence.  But,  mon  Dieu!  if  other 
fellows  were  wild  occasionally,  they  accepted  the 
penalties,  and  the  affair  was  finished;  on  me 
rested  a  responsibility — my  wildness  was  com- 
municated to  Gregoire.  Scarcely  had  I  resigned 
myself  to  dull  routine  again  when  Gregoire,  the 
industrious,  would  find  himself  unable  to  study 
a  page,  and  commit  freaks  for  which  he  rebuked 
me  most  sternly.  I  swear  that  my  chief  remem- 
brance of  my  college  days  is  Gregoire  addressing 
*»pompous  homilies  to  me,  in  this  fashion,  when 
he  was  in  disgrace  with  the  authorities : 

"I  ask  you  to  remember,  Silvestre,  that  you 
have  not  only  your  own  welfare  to  consider — 
you  have  mine!    I  am  here  to  qualify  myself  for 


302         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

an  earnest  career.  Be  good  enough  not  to  put 
obstacles  in  my  path.  Your  levity  impels  me  to 
distractions  which  I  condemn  even  while  I  yield 
to  them.  I  perceive  a  weakness  in  your  nature 
that  fills  me  with  misgivings  for  my  future;  if 
you  do  not  learn  to  resist  temptation,  to  what 
errors  may  I  not  be  driven  later  on — to  what 
outbreaks  of  frivolity  will  you  not  condemn  me 
when  we  are  men?" 

Well,  it  is  no  part  of  my  confession  to  white- 
wash myself — ^his  misgivings  were  realised!  So 
far  as  I  had  any  serious  aspirations  at  all,  I 
aspired  to  be  a  painter,  and,  after  combating  my 
family's  objections,  I  entered  an  art  school  in 
Paris.  Gregoire,  on  the  other  hand,  was  destined 
for  the  law.  During  the  next  few  years  we  met 
infrequently,  but  that  my  brother  continued  to 
be  affected  by  any  unusual  conditions  of  my  body 
and  mind  I  knew  by  his  letters,  which  seldom 
failed  to  contain  expostulations  and  entreaties. 
If  he  could  have  had  his  way,  indeed,  I  believe 
he  would  have  shut  me  in  a  monastery. 

Upon  my  word,  I  was  not  without  considera- 
tion for  him,  but  what  would  you  have?  I  think 
some  sympathy  was  due  to  me  also.  Regard  the 
situatiqn  with  my  eyes!  I  was  young,  popular, 
an  artist ;  my  life  was  no  more  frivolous  than  the 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        SOS 

lives  of  others  of  my  set;  yet,  in  lieu  of  being 
free,  like  them,  to  call  the  tune  and  dance  the 
measure,  I  was  burdened  with  a  heavier  responsi- 
bility than  weighs  upon  the  shoulders  of  any 
paterfamilias.  Let  me  but  drink  a  bottle  too 
much,  and  Gregoire,  the  grave,  would  subse- 
quently manifest  all  the  symptoms  of  intoxica- 
tion. Let  me  but  lose  my  head  about  a  petticoat, 
and  Gregoire,  the  righteous,  would  soon  be  run- 
ning after  a  girl  instead  of  attending  to  his  work. 
I  had  a  conscience — ^thoughts  of  the  trouble  that 
I  was  brewing  for  Gregoire  would  come  between, 
me  and  the  petticoat  and  rob  it  of  its  charms ;  his 
abominable  susceptibility  to  my  caprices  marred 
half  my  pleasures  for  me.  Once  when  I  sat  dis- 
trait, bowed  by  such  reflections,  a  woman  ex- 
claimed, ''What's  the  matter  with  you?  One 
would  think  you  had  a  family!"  ''Well,"  I  said, 
"I  have  a  twin!"  And  I  went  away.  She  was 
a  pretty  woman,  too ! 

Do  you  suppose  that  Maitre  Lapalme — he  was 
Maitre  Lapalme  by  then,  this  egregious  Gregoire 
— do  you  suppose  that  he  wrote  to  bless  me  for 
my  sacrifice?  Not  at  all!  Of  my  heroisms  he 
knew  nothing — ^he  was  conscious  only  of  my 
lapses.  To  read  his  letters  one  woul4^  have 
imagined  that  I  was  a  reprobate,  a  creature  :with- 


304         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

out  honour  or  remorse.  I  quote  from  one  of  them 
— it  is  a  specimen  of  them  all.  Can  you  blame 
me  if  I  had  no  love  for  this  correspondent? 

My  Brother^ 

The  Circumstances  of  Our  Birth  : — 

Your  attention  is  directed  to  my  preceding 
communications  on  this  subject.  I  desire  to  pro- 
test against  the  revelry  from  which  you  recovered 
either  on  the  15th  or  16th  inst.  On  the  afternoon 
of  the  latter  date,  while  engaged  in  a  conference 
of  the  first  magnitude,  I  was  seized  with  an  over- 
whelming desire  to  dance  a  quadrille  at  a  public 
ball.  I  found  it  impossible  to  concentrate  my 
attention  on  the  case  concerning  which  I  was 
consulted ;  I  could  no  longer  express  myself  with 
lucidity.  Outwardly  sedate,  reliable,  I  sat  at  my 
desk  dizzied  by  such  visions  as  pursued  St. 
Anthony  to  his  cell.  No  sooner  was  I  free  than 
I  fled  from  Vernon,  dined  in  Paris,  bought  a  false 
beard,  and  plunged  wildly  into  the  vortex  of  a 
dancing-hall.  Scoundrel!  This  is  past  pardon! 
My  sensibilities  revolt,  and  my  prudence  shud- 
ders. Who  shall  say  but  that  one  night  I  may  be 
recognised?  Who  can  foretell  to  what  blackmail 
you  may  expose  me?  I,  Maitre  Lapalme,  forbid 
your  profligacies,  which  devolve  upon  me ;  I  for- 
bid  etc. 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        305 

Such  admissions  my  brother  sent  to  me  in  a. 
disguised  hand,  and  unsigned;  perhaps  he  feared 
that  his  blackmailer  might  prove  to  be  myself  I 
Typewriting  was  not  yet  general  in  France. 

Our  mother  still  lived  at  Vernon,  where  she 
contemplated  her  favourite  son's  success  with  the 
profoundest  pride.  Occasionally  I  spent  a  few 
days  with  her;  sometimes  even  more,  for  she 
always  pressed  me  to  remain.  I  think  she  pressed 
me  to  remain,  not  from  any  pleasure  in  my 
society,  but  because  she  knew  that  while  I  was 
at  home  I  could  commit  no  actions  that  would 
corrupt  Gregoire.  One  summer,  when  I  visited 
her,  I  met  mademoiselle  Leuillet. 

Mademoiselle  Leuillet  was  the  daughter  of  a 
widower,  a  neighbour.  I  remembered  that  when 
our  servant  first  announced  her,  I  thought, 
"What  a  nuisance;  how  bored  I  am  going  to 
be!"  And  then  she  came  in,  and  in  an  instant 
I  was  spellbound. 

I  am  tempted  to  describe  Berthe  Leuillet  to 
you  as  she  entered  our  salon  that  afternoon  in  a 
white  frock,  with  a  basket  of  roses  in  her  little 
hands,  but  I  know  very  well  that  no  description 
of  a  girl  ever  painted  her  to  anybody  yet.  Suffice 
it  that  she  was  beautiful  as  an  angel,  that  her 
voice  was  like  the  music  of  the  spheres — more 


306         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

than  all,  thai;  one  felt  all  the  time,  ''How  good 
she  is,  how  good,  how  good!" 

I  suppose  the  impression  that  she  made  upon 
me  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  for  when  she  had  gone, 
my  mother  remarked,  "You  did  not  say  much. 
Are  you  always  so  silent  in  girls'  company?" 
"No,"  I  answered;  "I  do  not  often  meet  such 
girls," 

But  afterwards  I  often  met  Berthe  Leuillet. 

Never  since  I  was  a  boy  had  I  stayed  at 
Vernon  for  so  long  as  now;  never  had  I  repented 
so  bitterly  as  now  the  error  of  my  ways.  I  loved, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  sometimes  that  my  attach- 
ment was  reciprocated,  yet  my  position  forbade 
me  to  go  to  monsieur  Leuillet  and  ask  boldly 
for  his  daughter's  hand.  While  I  had  remained 
obscure,  painters  of  my  acquaintance,  whose 
talent  was  no  more  remarkable  than  my  own,  had 
raised  themselves  from  bohemia  into  prosperity. 
I  abused  myself,  I  acknowledged  that  I  was  an 
idler,  a  good-for-nothing,  I  declared  that  the 
punishment  that  had  overtaken  me  was  no  more 
than  I  deserved.  And  then — ^well,  then  I  owned 
to  Berthe  that  I  loved  her! 

Deliberately,  of  course,  I  should  not  have  done 
this  before  seeking  her  father's  permission,  but 
it  happened  in  the  hour  of  our  "good-bye",  and 
I  was  suffering  too  deeply  to  subdue  the  impulse. 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        307 

I  owned  that  I  loved  her — and  when  I  left  for 
Paris  we  were  secretly  engaged. 

Mon  Dieu!  Now  I  worked  indeed!  To  win 
this  girl  for  my  own,  to  show  myself  worthy  of 
her  innocent  faith,  supplied  me  with  the  most 
powerful  incentive  in  life.  In  the  quarter  they 
regarded  me  first  with  ridicule,  then  with  wonder, 
and,  finally,  with  respect.  For  my  enthusiasm 
did  not  fade.  "He  has  turned  over  a  new  leaf," 
they  said,  "he  means  to  be  famous!"  It  was 
understood.  No  more  excursions  for  Silvestre, 
no  more  junketings  and  recklessness!  In  the 
morning  as  soon  as  the  sky  was  light  I  was  at 
my  easel ;  in  the  evening  I  studied,  I  sketched,  I 
wrote  to  Berthe,  and  re-read  her  letters.  I  wa§ 
another  man — ^my  ideal  of  happiness  was  now  a 
wife  and  home. 

For  a  year  I  lived  this  new  life.  I  progressed. 
Men — men  whose  approval  was  a  cachet — ^began 
to  speak  of  me  as  one  with  a  future.  In  the  Salon 
a  picture  of  mine  made  something  of  a  stir.  How 
I  rejoiced,  how  grateful  and  sanguine  I  was! 
All  Paris  sang  "Berthe"  to  me;  the  criticisms 
in  the  papers,  the  felicitations  of  my  friends,  the 
praise  of  the  public,  all  meant  Berthe — Berthe 
with  her  arms  about  me,  Berthe  on  my  breast. 

I  said  that  it  was  not  too  soon  for  me  to  speak 
now;  I  had  proved  my  mettle,  and,  though  I 


308         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

foresaw  that  her  father  would  ask  more  before 
he  gave  his  consent,  I  was,  at  least,  justified  in 
avowing  myself.  I  telegraphed  to  my  mother 
to  expect  me;  I  packed  my  portmanteau  with 
trembling  hands,  and  threw  myself  into  a  cab. 

On  the  way  to  the  station,  I  noticed  the  window 
of  a  florist;  I  bade  the  driver  stop,  and  ran  in  to 
bear  off  some  lilies  for  Berthe.  The  shop  was  so 
full  of  wonderful  flowers  that,  once  among  them, 
I  found  some  difficulty  in  making  my  choice. 
Hence  I  missed  the  train — and  returned  to  my 
studio,  incensed  by  the  delay.  A  letter  for  me 
had  just  been  delivered.  It  told  me  that  on  the 
previous  morning  Berthe  had  married  my 
brother. 

I  could  have  welcomed  a  pistol-shot — ^my 
world  rocked.  Berthe  lost,  false,  Gregoire's  wife. 
I  reiterated  it,  I  said  it  over  and  over,  I  was 
stricken  by  it — and  yet  I  could  not  realise  that 
actually  it  had  happened.  It  seemed  too  treach- 
erous, too  horrible  to  be  true. 

Oh,  I  made  certain  of  it  later,  believe  me ! — I 
was  no  hero  of  a  "great  serial,"  to  accept  such 
intelligence  without  proof.  I  assured  myself  of 
her  perfidy,  and  burnt  her  love-letters  one  by 
one;  tore  her  photographs  into  shreds — strove 
also  to  tear  her  image  from  my  heart. 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        309 

Ah,  that  mocked  me,  that  I  could  not  tear! 
A  year  before  I  should  have  rushed  to  the  cafes 
for  forgetfulness,  but  now,  as  the  shock  subsided, 
I  turned  feverishly  to  work.  I  told  myself  that 
she  had  wrecked  my  peace,  my  faith  in  women, 
that  I  hated  and  despised  her;  but  I  swore  that 
she  should  not  have  the  triumph  of  wrecking  my 
career,  too.  I  said  that  my  art  still  remained  to 
me — ^that  I  would  find  oblivion  in  my  art. 

Brave  words !  But  one  does  not  recover  from 
such  blows  so  easily. 

For  months  I  persisted,  denying  myself  the 
smallest  respite,  clinging  to  a  resolution  which 
proved  vainer  daily.  Were  art  to  be  mastered 
by  dogged  endeavour,  I  should  have  conquered; 
but  alas !  though  I  could  compel  myself  to  paint, 
I  could  not  compel  myself  to  paint  well.  It  was 
the  perception  of  this  fact  that  shattered  me  at 
last.  I  had  fought  temptation  for  half  a  year, 
worked  with  my  teeth  clenched,  worked  against 
nature,  .w^orked  while  my  pulses  beat  and  clam- 
oured for  the  draughts  of  dissipation,  which 
promised  a  speedier  release.  I  had  wooed  art, 
not  as  art's  lover,  but  as  a  tortured  soul  may 
turn  to  one  woman  in  the  desperate  hope  of 
subduing  his  passion  for  another — and  art  would 
yield  nothing  to  a  suitor  who  approached  like 


310         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

that ;  I  recognised  that  my  work  had  been  wasted, 
that  the  struggle  had  been  useless — I  broke 
down! 

I  need  say  little  of  the  months  that  followed 
— ^it  would  be  a  record  of  degradations,  and  re- 
morse; alternately,  I  fell,  and  was  ashamed. 
There  were  days  when  I  never  left  the  house, 
when  I  was  repulsive  to  myself;  I  shuddered  at 
the  horrors  that  I  had  committed.  No  saint  has 
loved  virtue  better  than  I  did  during  those  long, 
sick  days  of  self-disgust ;  no  man  was  ever  more 
sure  of  defying  such  hideous  temptations  if  they 
recurred.  As  my  lassitude  passed,  I  would  take 
up  my  brushes  and  feel  confident  for  an  hour, 
or  for  a  week.  And  then  temptation  would 
creep  on  me  once  more — ^humming  in  my  ears, 
and  tingling  in  my  veins.  And  temptation  had 
lost  its  loathsomeness  now — it  looked  again 
attractive.  It  was  a  siren,  it  dizzied  my  con- 
science, and  stupefied  my  common  sense.  Back 
to  the  mire  I 

One  afternoon  when  I  returned  to  my  rooms, 
from  which  I  had  been  absent  since  the  previous 
day,  I  heard  from  the  concierge  that  a  visitor 
awaited  me.  I  climbed  the  stairs  without  antici- 
pation. My  thoughts  were  sluggish,  my  limbs 
leaden,  my  eyes  heavy  and  bloodshot.    Twilight 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        311 

had  gathered,  and  as  I  entered  I  discerned 
merely  the  figure  of  a  woman.  Then  she  ad- 
vanced— and  all  Hell  seemed  to  leap  flaring  to 
my  heart.    My  visitor  was  Berthe. 

I  think  nearly  a  minute  must  have  passed  while 
we  looked  speechlessly  in  each  other's  face — hers 
convulsed  by  entreaty,  mine  dark  with  hate. 

''Have  you  no  word  for  me?"  she  whispered. 

''Permit  me  to  offer  my  congratulations  on 
your  marriage,  madame,"  I  said;  "I  have  had 
no  earlier  opportunity." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  gasped.  "I  have  come  to 
beseech  your  forgiveness!  Can  you  not  forget 
the  wrong  I  did  you?" 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  had  forgotten?" 

"I  was  inconstant,  cruel,  I  cannot  excuse  my- 
self. But,  O  Silvestre,  in  the  name  of  the  love 
you  once  bore  me,  have  pity  on  us!  Reform, 
abjure  your  evil  courses !  Do  not,  I  implore  you, 
condemn  my  husband  to  this  abyss  of  depravity, 
do  not  wreck  my  married  life!" 

Now  I  understood  what  had  procured  me  the 
honour  of  a  visit  from  this  woman,  and  I  tri- 
umphed devilishly  that  I  was  the  elder  twin. 

"Madame,"  I  answered,  "I  think  that  I  owe 
you  no  explanations,  but  I  shall  say  this:  the 
evil  courses  that  you  deplore  were  adopted,  not 


312         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

vindictively,  but  in  the  effort  to  numb  the  agony 
that  you  had  made  me  suff*ei\  You  but  reap  as 
you  have  sown," 

''Reform!"  she  sobbed.  She  sank  on  her  knees 
before  me.    ''Silvestre,  in  mercy  to  us,  reform!" 

''I  will  never  reform,"  I  said  inflexibly.  "I 
will  grow  more  abandoned  day  by  day — ^my  past 
faults  shall  shine  as  merits  compared  with  the 
atrocities  that  are  to  come.  False  girl,  monster 
of  selfishness,  you  are  dragging  me  to  the  gutter, 
and  your  only  grief  is  that  he  must  share  my 
shame!  You  have  blackened  my  soul,  and  you 
have  no  regret  but  that  my  iniquities  must  react 
on  him!  By  the  shock  that  stunned  him  in  the 
first  flush  of  your  honeymoon,  you  know  what  I 
experienced  when  I  received  the  news  of  your 
deceit;  by  the  anguish  of  repentance  that  over- 
takes him  after  each  of  his  orgies,  which  revolt 
you,  you  know  that  I  was  capable  of  being  a 
nobler  man.  The  degradation  that  you  behold 
is  your  own  work.  You  have  made  me  bad,  and 
you  must  bear  the  consequences — you  cannot 
make  me  good  now  to  save  your  husband!" 

Humbled  and  despairing,  she  left  me. 

I  repeat  that  it  is  no  part  of  my  confession  to 
palliate  my  guilt.  The  sight  of  her  had  served 
merely  to  inflame  my  resentment — and  it  was  at 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        313 

this  stage  that  I  began  dehberately  to  contem- 
plate revenge. 

But  not  the  one  that  I  had  threatened.  Ah, 
nol  I  bethought  myself  of  a  vengeance  more 
complete  than  that.  What,  after  all,  were  these 
escapades  of  his  that  were  followed  by  contrition, 
that  saw  him  again  and  again  a  penitent  at  her 
feet?  There  should  be  no  more  of  such  trifles; 
she  should  be  tortured  with  the  torture  that  she 
had  dealt  to  me — I  would  make  him  adore 
another  woman  with  all  his  heart  and  brain! 

It  was  difficult,  for  first  I  must  adore,  and  tire 
of  another  woman  myself — as  my  own  passion 
faded,  his  would  be  born.  I  swore,  however, 
that  I  would  compass  it,  that  I  would  worship 
some  woman  for  a  year — two  years,  as  long  as 
possible.  He  would  be  at  peace  in  the  mean- 
time, but  the  longer  my  enslavement  lasted,  the 
longer  Berthe  would  suffer  when  her  punishment 
began. 

For  some  weeks  now  I  worked  again,  to  pro- 
vide myself  with  money.  I  bought  new  clothes 
and  made  myself  presentable.  When  my  ap- 
pearance accorded  better  with  my  plan,  I 
paraded  Paris,  seeking  the  woman  to  adore. 

You  may  think  Paris  is  full  of  adorable 
women?    Well,  so  contrary  is  human  nature,  that 


314         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

never  had  I  felt  such  indifference  towards  the 
sex  as  during  that  tedious  quest — never  had  a 
pair  of  brilliant  eyes,  or  a  well-turned  neck 
appealed  to  me  so  little.  After  a  month,  my 
search  seemed  hopeless ;  I  had  viewed  women  by 
the  thousand,  but  not  one  with  whom  I  could 
persuade  myself  that  I  might  fall  violently  in 
love. 

How  true  it  is  that  only  the  unforeseen  comes 
to  pass!  There  was  a  model,  one  Louise,  whose 
fortune  was  her  back,  and  who  had  long  bored 
me  by  an  evident  tenderness.  One  day,  this 
Louise,  usually  so  constrained  in  my  presence, 
appeared  in  high  spirits,  and  mentioned  that  she 
was  going  to  be  married. 

The  change  in  her  demeanour  interested  me; 
for  the  first  time,  I  perceived  that  the  attractions 
of  Louise  were  not  limited  to  her  back.  A  little 
piqued,  I  invited  her  to  dine  with  me.  If  she 
had  said  "y^^/'  doubtless  that  would  have  been 
the  end  of  my  interest;  but  she  refused.  Before 
I  parted  from  her,  I  made  an  appointment  for 
her  to  sit  to  me  the  next  morning. 

"So  you  are  going  to  be  married,  Louise?"  I 
said  carelessly,  as  I  set  the  palette, 

"In  truth!"  she  answered. 

"No  regrets?" 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        315 

"What  regi-ets  could  I  have?  He  is  a  very 
pretty  boy,  and  well-to-do,  believe  me!" 

"And  I  am  not  a  pretty  boy,  nor  well-to-do, 
hein?" 

"Ah,  zut!"  she  laughed,  "you  do  not  care  for 
me. 

"Is  it  so?"  I  said.  "What  would  you  say  if 
I  told  you  that  I  did  care?" 

"I  should  say  that  you  told  me  too  late,  mon- 
sieur," she  replied,  with  a  shrug.  "Are  you 
ready  for  me  to  pose?"  And  this  changed  woman 
turned  her  peerless  back  on  me  without  a  scruple. 

A  little  mortified,  I  attended  strictly  to  busi- 
ness for  the  rest  of  the  morning.  But  I  found 
myself,  on  the  following  day,  waiting  for  her 
with  impatience, 

"And  when  is  the  event  to  take  place?"  I 
inquired,  more  eagerly  than  I  chose  to  acknowl- 
edge. This  was  by  no  means  the  sort  of 
enchantress  that  I  had  been  seeking,  you  under- 
stand. 

"In  the  spring,"  she  said.  "Look  at  the  ring 
he  has  given  to  me,  monsieur;  is  it  not  beauti- 
ful?" 

I  remarked  that  Louise's  hands  were  very  well 
shaped;  and,  indeed,  happiness  had  brought  a 
certain  charm  to  her  face. 


316         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Do  you  know,  Louise,  that  I  am  sorry  that 
you  are  going  to  marry?"  I  exclaimed. 

''Oh,  get  out!"  she  laughed,  pushing  me  away, 
"It  is  no  good  your  talking  nonsense  to  me  now, 
don't  flatter  yourself!" 

Pouchin,  the  sculptor,  happened  to  come  in  at 
that  moment.  "Sapristi!"  he  shouted;  "what 
changes  are  to  he  seen!  The  nose  of  our  brave 
Silvestre  is  out  of  joint  now  that  we  are  affianced, 
hein?" 

She  joined  in  his  laughter  against  me,  and  I 
picked  up  my  brush  again  in  a  vile  humour. 

Well,  as  I  have  said,  she  was  not  the  Idnd  of 
woman  that  I  had  contemplated,  but  these  things 
arrange  themselves — I  became  seriously  enam- 
oured of  her.  And,  recognising  that  Fate  works 
with  her  own  instruments,  I  did  not  struggle. 
For  months  I  was  at  Louise's  heels;  I  was  the 
sport  of  her  whims,  and  her  slights,  sometimes 
even  of  her  insults.  I  actually  made  her  an  offer 
of  marriage,  at  which  she  snapped  her  white 
fingers  with  a  grimace — and  the  more  she  flouted 
me,  the  more  fascinated  I  grew.  In  that  rap- 
turous hour  when  her  insolent  eyes  softened  to 
sentiment,  when  her  mocking  mouth  melted  to  a 
kiss,  I  was  in  Paradise.  My  ecstasy  was  so 
supreme  that  I  forgot  to  triumph  at  my  ap- 
proaching vengeance. 


THE  DANGER  OF  BEING  A  TWIN        317 

So  I  married  Louise;  and  yesterday  was  the 
twentieth  anniversary  of  our  wedding.  Berthe? 
To  speak  the  truth,  my  plot  against  her  was 
frustrated  by  an  accident.  You  see,  before  I 
could  communicate  my  passion  to  Gregoire  I  had 
to  recover  from  it,  and — this  invincible  Louise ! — 
I  have  not  recovered  from  it  yet.  There  are 
days  when  she  turns  her  remarkable  back  on 
me  now — generally  when  I  am  idle — but,  mon 
Dieu!  the  moments  when  she  turns  her  lips  are 
worth  working  for.  Therefore,  Berthe  has  been 
all  the  time  quite  happy  with  the  good  Gregoire 
— and,  since  I  possess  Louise,  upon  my  word  of 
honour  I  do  not  mind ! 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE 

Mademoiselle  Clairette  used  to  say  that  if 
a  danseuse  could  not  throw  a  glance  to  the  con- 
ductor of  the  band  without  the  juggler  being 
jealous,  the  Variety  Profession  was  coming  to  a 
pretty  pass.  She  also  remarked  that  for  a  girl 
to  entrust  her  life's  happiness  to  a  jealous  man 
would  be  an  act  of  lunacy.  And  then  "Little 
Flouflou,  the  Juggling  Genius,"  who  was  dying 
to  marry  her,  would  suffer  tortures.  He  tried 
hard  to  conquer  his  failing,  but  it  must  be  owned 
that  Clairette's  glances  were  very  expressive,  and 
that  she  distributed  them  indiscriminately.  At 
Chartres,  one  night,  he  was  so  upset  that  he 
missed  the  umbrella,  and  the  cigar,  and  the  hat 
one  after  another,  and  instead  of  condoling  with 
him  when  he  came  off  the  stage,  all  she  said  was 
"Butter-fingers!" 

"Promise  to  be  my  wife,"  he  would  entreat: 
"it  is  not  knowing  where  I  am  that  gives  me  the 
pip.  If  you  consented,  I  should  be  as  right  as 
rain — your  word  is  better  to  me  than  any  Man- 
agement's  contract,     I   trust   you — it   is   only 

318 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE     319 

myself  that  I  doubt;  every  time  you  look  at  a 
man  I  wonder,  'Am  I  up  to  that  chap's  mark?  is 
my  turn  as  clever  as  his?  isn't  it  likely  he  will  cut 
me  out  with  her?'  If  you  only  belonged  to  me 
I  should  never  be  jealous  again  as  long  as  I 
lived.    Straight!" 

And  Clair ette  would  answer  firmly,  "Poor 
boy,  you  couldn't  help  it — you  are  made  like  that. 
There'd  be  ructions  every  week;  I  should  be  for 
ever  in  hot  water.  I  like  you  very  much,  Flou- 
flou,  but  I'm  not  going  to  play  the  giddy  goat. 
Chuck  it!" 

Nevertheless,  he  continued  to  worship  her — 
from  her  tawdry  tiara  to  her  tinselled  shoes — 
and  everybody  was  sure  that  it  would  be  a  match 
one  day.  That  is  to  say,  everybody  was  sure  of 
it  until  the  Strong  Man  had  joined  the  troupe. 

Hercule  was  advertised  as  "The  Great  Paris 
Star."  Holding  himself  very  erect,  he  strutted, 
in  his  latticed  foot-gear,  with  stiff  little  steps, 
and  inflated  lungs,  to  the  footlights,  and  tore 
chains  to  pieces  as  easily  as  other  persons  tear 
bills.  He  lay  down  and  supported  a  posse  of 
mere  mortals,  and  a  van-load  of  "properties"  on 
his  chest,  and  regained  his  feet  with  a  skip  and  a 
smirk.  He — ^but  his  achievements  are  well 
known.  Preceding  these  feats  of  force,  was  a 
feature  of  his  entertainment  which  Hercule  en- 


320         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

joyed  inordinately.  He  stood  on  a  pedestal  and 
struck  attitudes  to  show  the  splendour  of  his 
physique.  Wearing  only  a  girdle  of  tiger-skin, 
and  bathed  in  limelight,  he  felt  hiitiself  to  be  as 
glorious  as  a  god.  The  applause  was  a  nightly 
intoxication  to  him.  He  lived  for  it.  All  day 
he  looked  forward  to  the  moment  when  he  could 
mount  the  pedestal  again  and  make  his  biceps 
jump,  and  exhibit  the  magnificence  of  his  highly 
developed  back  to  hundreds  of  wondering  eyes. 
No  woman  was  ever  vainer  of  her  form  than  was 
Hercule  of  his.  No  woman  ever  contemplated 
her  charms  more  tenderly  than  Hercule  regarded 
his  muscles.  The  latter  half  of  his  ''turn"  was 
fatiguing,  but  to  posture  in  the  limelight,  while 
the  audience  stared  open-mouthed  and  admired 
his  nakedness,  that  was  jfine,  it  was  dominion,  it 
was  bliss. 

Hercule  had  never  experienced  a  great  passion 
— the  passion  of  vanity  excepted — never  waited 
in  the  rain  at  a  street  corner  for  a  coquette  who 
did  not  come,  nor  sighed,  like  the  juggler,  under 
the  v/indow  of  a  girl  who  flouted  his  declarations. 
He  had  but  permitted  homage  to  be  rendered  to 
him.  So  when  he  fell  in  love  with  Clairette,  he 
didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it. 

For  Clairette,  sprightly  as  she  was,  did  not 
encourage  Hercule.    He  at  once  attracted  and 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE  321 

repelled  her.  When  he  rent  chains,  and  poised 
prodigious  weights  above  his  head,  she  thrilled 
at  his  prowess,  but  the  next  time  he  attitudinised 
in  the  tiger-skin  she  turned  up  her  nose.  She 
recognised  something  feminine  in  the  giant.  In- 
stinct told  her  that  by  disposition  the  Strong 
Man  was  less  manly  than  Little  Flouflou,  whom 
he  could  have  swung  like  an  Indian  club. 

No,  Hercule  didn't  know  what  to  m.ake  of  it. 
It  was  a  new  and  painful  thing  to  find  himself 
the  victim  instead  of  the  conqueror.  For  once 
in  his  career,  he  hung  about  the  wings  wistfully, 
seeking  a  sign  of  approval.  For  once  he  dis- 
played his  majestic  figure  on  the  pedestal  blankly 
conscious  of  being  viewed  by  a  woman  whom  he 
failed  to  impress. 

''What  do  you  think  of  my  turn?"  he  ques- 
tioned at  last. 

"Oh,  I  have  seen  worse,"  was  all  she  granted. 

The  giant  winced. 

"I  am  the  strongest  man  in  the  world,"  he  pro- 
claimed. 

"I  have  never  met  a  Strong  Man  who  wasn't!" 
said  she. 

''But  there  is  someone  stronger  than  I  am," 
he  owned  humbly.  (Hercule  humble!)  "Do 
you  know  what  you  have  done  to  me,  Clairette? 
You  have  made  a  fool  of  me,  my  dear." 


322         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Don't  be  so  cheeky,"  she  returned.  "Who 
gave  you  leave  to  call  me  'Clairette/  and  'my 
dear'?  A  little  more  politeness,  if  you  please, 
monsieur!"  And  she  cut  the  conversation  short 
as  unceremoniously  as  if  he  had  been  a  super. 

Those  who  have  seen  Hercule  only  in  his 
"act" — ^who  think  of  him  superb,  supreme — ^may 
find  it  difficult  to  credit  the  statement,  but, 
honestly,  the  Great  Star  used  to  trot  at  her  heels 
like  a  poodle.  And  she  was  not  a  beauty  by  any 
means,  with  her  impudent  nose,  and  her  mouth 
that  was  too  big  to  defy  criticism.  Perhaps  it 
was  her  carriage  that  fascinated  him,  the 
grace  of  her  slender  figure,  which  he  could  have 
snapped  as  a  child  snaps  jumbles.  Perhaps  it 
was  those  eyes  which  unwittingly  promised  more 
than  she  gave.  Perhaps,  above  all,  it  was  her  in- 
difference. Yes,  on  consideration,  it  must  have 
been  her  indifferent  air,  the  novelty  of  being 
scorned,  that  made  him  a  slave. 

But,  of  course,  she  was  more  flattered  by  his 
bondage  than  she  showed.  Every  night  he 
planted  himself  in  the  prompt-entrance  to  watch 
her  dance  and  clap  his  powerful  hands  in  adula- 
tion. She  could  not  be  insensible  to  the  com- 
pliment, though  her  smiles  were  oftenest  for 
Flouflou,  who  planted  himself,  adulating,  on  the 
opposite     side.    Adagio!    Allegretto!     Vivace! 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE     S23 

Unperceived  by  the  audience,  the  gaze  of  the 
two  men  would  meet  across  the  stage  with  mis- 
giving. Each  feared  the  other's  attentions  to 
her,  each  wished  with  all  his  heart  that  the  other 
would  get  the  sack;  they  glared  at  each  other 
horribly.  And,  meanwhile,  the  orchestra  played 
its  sweetest,  and  Clairette  pirouetted  her  best, 
and  the  Public,  approving  the  obvious,  saw  noth- 
ing of  the  intensity  of  the  situation. 

Imagine  the  emotions  of  the  little  juggler, 
jealous  by  temperament,  jealous  even  without 
cause,  now  that  he  beheld  a  giant  laying  siege 
to  her  affections ! 

And  then,  on  a  certain  evening,  Clairette  threw 
but  two  smiles  to  Floujflou,  and  three  to  Hercule. 

The  truth  is  that  she  did  not  attach  so  much 
significance  to  the  smiles  as  did  the  opponents 
who  counted  them.  But  that  accident  was  mo- 
mentous. The  Strong  Man  made  her  a  burning 
offer  of  marriage  within  half  an  hour;  and  next, 
the  juggler  made  her  furious  reproaches. 

Now  she  had  rejected  the  Strong  Man — and, 
coming  when  they  did,  the  juggler's  reproaches 
had  a  totally  different  effect  from  the  one  that 
he  had  intended.  So  far  from  exciting  her 
sympathy  towards  him,  they  accentuated  her 
compassion  for  Hercule.  How  stricken  he  had 
been  by  her  refusal!    She  could  not  help  re- 


3M         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

membering  his  despair  as  he  sat  huddled  on  a 
hamper,  a  giant  that  she  had  crushed.  Flouflou 
was  a  thankless  little  pig,  she  reflected,  for,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  her  decision.  She  had  deserved  a  better 
reward  than  to  be  abused  by  him ! 

Yes,  her  sentiments  towards  Hercule  were 
newly  tender,  and  an  event  of  the  next  night 
intensified  them.  It  was  Hercule's  custom,  in 
every  town  that  the  Constellation  visited,  to 
issue  a  challenge.  He  pledged  himself  to  present 
a  "Purse  of  Gold" — it  contained  a  ten-franc 
piece — ^to  any  eight  men  who  vanquished  him  in 
a  tug-of-war.  The  spectacle  was  always  an  im- 
mense success — ^the  eight  yokels  straining,  and 
tumbling  over  one  another,  while  Hercule,  wear- 
ing a  masterful  smile,  kept  his  ten  francs  intact. 
A  tug-of-war  had  been  arranged  for  the  night 
following,  and  by  every  law  of  prudence,  Her- 
cule should  have  abstained  from  the  bottle  during 
the  day. 

But  he  did  not.  His  misery  sent  discretion 
headlong  to  the  winds.  Every  time  that  he 
groaned  for  the  danseuse  he  took  another  drink, 
and  when  the  time  came  far  him  to  go  to  the 
show,  the  giant  was  as  drunk  as  a  lord.  The 
force  of  habit  enabled  him  to  fulfil  some  of  his 
stereotyped  performance,  he  emerged  from  that 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE     325 

without  disgrace;  but  when  the  eight  brawny 
competitors  lumbered  on  to  the  boards,  his  heart 
sank.  The  other  artists  winked  at  one  another 
appreciatively,  and  the  manager  hopped  with 
apprehension. 

Sure  enough,  the  hero's  legs  made  strange 
trips  to-night.  The  sixteen  arms  pulled  him,  not 
only  over  the  chalk  line,  but  all  over  the  stage. 
They  played  havoc  with  him.  And  then  the 
manager  had  to  go  on  and  make  a  speech,  besides, 
because  the  'Turse  of  Gold"  aroused  dissatisfac- 
tion.   The  fiasco  was  hideous. 

"Ah,  Clairette,"  moaned  the  Strong  Man, 
pitifully,  "it  was  all  through  you!" 

Elsewhere  a  Strong  Man  had  put  forth  that 
plea,  and  the  other  lady  had  been  inexorable. 
But  Clairette  faltered. 

"Through  me?"  she  murmured,  with  emotion. 

"I'm  no  boozer,"  muttered  Hercule,  whom  the 
disaster  had  sobered.  "If  I  took  too  much  to- 
day, it  was  because  I  had  got  such  a  hump." 

"But  why  be  mashed  on  me,  Hercule?"  she 
said;  "why  not  think  of  me  as  a  pal?" 

"You're  talking  silly,"  grunted  Hercule. 

"Perhaps  so,"  she  confessed.  "But  I'm  aw- 
fully sorry  the  turn  went  so  rotten." 

"Don't  kid!" 

"Why  should  I  kid  about  it?" 


826         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"If  you  really  meant  it,  you  would  take  back 
what  you  said  yesterday." 

"Oh!"    The  gesture  was  dismayed. 

"You  see!  What's  the  good  of  gassing?  As 
soon  as  I  ask  anything  of  you,  you  dry  up.  Bah! 
I  daresay  you  will  guy  me  just  as  much  as  all 
the  rest.     I  know  you!" 

"If  you  weren't  in  trouble,  I'd  give  you  a  thick 
ear  for  that,"  she  said.  "You  ungrateful  brute!" 
She  turned  haughtily  away. 

"Clairette!" 

"Oh,  rats!" 

"Don't  get  the  needle!  I'm  off  my  rocker 
to-night." 

"Ah!  That's  all  right,  cully!"  Her  hand 
was  swift.    "I've  been  there  myself." 

"Clairette!"    He  caught  her  close. 

"Here,  what  are  you  at?"  she  cried.  "Drop 
it!" 

"Clairette!  Say  'yes.'  I'm  loony  about  you. 
There's  a  duck!  I'll  be  a  daisy  of  a  husband. 
Won't  you?" 

"Oh,  I — I  don't  know,"  she  stammered. 

And  thus  were  they  betrothed. 

To  express  what  Flouflou  felt  would  be  but 
to  harrow  the  reader's  sensibilities.  What  he 
said,  rendered  into  English,  was: 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE     327 

*'I'd  rather  you  had  given  me  the  goby  for 
any  cove  in  the  crowd  than  that  swine!" 

They  were  in  the  ladies'  dressing-room.  "The 
Two  Bonbons"  had  not  finished  their  duet,  and 
he  was  alone  with  her  for  a  moment.  She  was 
pinning  a  switch  into  her  back  hair,  in  front  of 
the  scrap  of  looking-glass  against  the  mildewed 
wall. 

"You  don't  do  yourself  any  good  with  me, 
Flouflou,  by  calling  Hercule  names,"  she  replied 
icily. 

"So  he  is!" 

"Oh,  you  are  jealous  of  him,"  she  retorted. 

"Of  course  I  am  jealous  of  him,"  owned 
Flouflou;  "you  can't  rile  me  by  saying  that. 
Didn't  I  love  you  first?  And  a  lump  better  than 
he  does." 

"Now  you're  talking  through  your  hat!" 

"You  usedn't  to  take  any  truck  of  him,  your- 
self, at  the  beginning.  He  only  got  round  you 
because  he  was  drunk  and  queered  his  business. 
I  have  been  drunk,  too — you  didn't  say  you'd 
marry  me.  It's  not  in  him  to  love  any  girl  for 
long — he's  too  sweet  on  himself." 

"Look  here,"  she  exclaimed.  "I've  had 
enough.  Hook  it!  And  don't  you  speak  to  me 
any  more.    Understand?"    She  put  the  hairpins 


328         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

aside,  and  began  to  whitewash  her  hands  and 
arms. 

"That's,  the  straight  tip,"  said  Flouflou, 
brokenly;  "I'm  off.  Well,  I  wish  you  luck,  old 
dear!" 

"Running  him  down  to  me  like  that!  A  dirty 
trick,  I  call  it." 

"I  never  meant  to,  straight;  I Sorry, 

Clairette."  He  lingered  at  the  door.  "I  suppose 
I  shall  have  to  say  'madame'  soon?" 

"Footle,"  she  murmured,  moved. 

"You've  not  got  your  knife  into  me,  have  you, 
Clairette?  I  didn't  mean  to  be  a  beast.  I'd  have 
gone  to  hell  for  you,  that's  all,  and  I  wish  I  was 
dead." 

"Silly  kid!"  she  faltered,  blinking.  And  then 
"The  Two  Bonbons"  came  back  to  doff  their  cos- 
tumes, and  he  was  turned  out. 

Never  had  Hercule  been  so  puffed  up.  His 
knowledge  of  the  juggler's  sufferings  made  the 
victory  more  rapturous  still.  No  longer  did 
Flouflou  stand  opposite-prompt  to  watch  Clair- 
ette's  dance;  no  longer  did  he  loiter  about  the 
passages  after  the  curtain  was  down,  on  the 
chance  of  being  permitted  to  escort  her  to  her 
doorstep.  Such  privileges  were  the  Strong 
Man's  alone.  She  was  affianced  to  him!  At  the 
swelling  thought,  his  chest  became  Brobding- 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE  329 

nagian.  His  bounce  in  company  was  now 
colossal;  and  it  afforded  the  troupe  a  popular 
entertainment  to  see  him  drop  to  servility  in  her 
presence.  Her  frown  was  sufficient  to  reduce 
him  to  a  cringe.  They  called  him  the  "Quick- 
change  artist." 

But  Hercule  scarcely  minded  cringing  to  her ; 
at  all  events  he  scarcely  minded  it  in  a  tete-a-tete; 
she  was  unique.  He  would  have  run  to  her 
whistle,  and  fawned  at  her  kick.  She  had  agreed 
to  marry  him  in  a  few  weeks'  time,  and  his  head 
swam  at  the  prospect.  Visions  of  the  future 
dazzled  him.  When  he  saw  her  to  her  home  after 
the  performance,  he  used  to  talk  of  the  joint 
engagements  they  would  get  by-and-by — "not 
in  snide  shows  like  this,  but  in  first-class  halls" — 
and  of  how  tremendously  happy  they  were  going 
to  be.  And  then  Clairette  would  stifle  a  sigh  and 
say,  "Oh,  yes,  of  course!"  and  try  to  persuade 
herself  that  she  had  no  regrets. 

Meanwhile  the  Constellation  had  not  been 
play'ng  to  such  good  business  as  the  manager 
had  anticipated.  He  had  done  a  bold  thing  in 
obtaining  Hercule — ^who,  if  not  so  famous  as  the 
posters  pretended,  was  at  least  a  couple  of  rungs 
above  the  other  humble  mountebanks — and  the 
box-office  ought  to  have  yielded  better  results. 
Monsieur  Blond  was  anxious.    He  asked  himself 


330         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

what  the  Pubhc  wanted.  Simultaneously  he 
pondered  the  idea  of  a  further  attraction,  and 
perspired  at  the  thought  of  further  expense. 

At  this  time  the  "Living  Statuary"  turn  was 
the  latest  craze  in  the  variety  halls  of  fashion, 
and  one  day  poor  Blond,  casting  an  expert  eye  on 
his  danseuse,  questioned  why  she  should  not  be 
billed,  a  town  or  two  ahead,  as  "Aphrodite,  the 
Animated  Statue,  Direct  from  Paris." 

To  question  was  to  act.  The  weather  was 
mild,  and,  though  Clairette  experienced  pangs 
of  modesty  when  she  learnt  that  the  Statue's 
"costume"  was  to  be  applied  with  a  sponge,  she 
could  not  assert  that  she  would  be  in  danger 
of  taking  a  chill.  Besides,  her  salary  was  to  be 
raised  a  trifle. 

Blond  rehearsed  her  assiduously  (madame 
Blond  in  attendance),  and,  to  his  joy,  she  dis- 
played a  remarkable  gift  for  adopting  the  poses. 
As  "The  Bather"  she  promised  to  be  entrancing, 
and,  until  she  wobbled,  her  "Nymph  at  the 
Fountain"  was  a  pure  delight.  Moreover,  thanks 
to  her  accomplishments  as  a  dancer,  she  did  not 
wobble  very  badly. 

All  the  same,  when  the  date  of  her  debut 
arrived,  she  was  extremely  nervous.  Elated  by 
his  inspiration.  Blond  had  for  once  been  prodigal 
with  the  printing,  and  on  her  way  to  the  stage 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE     331 

door,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  name  of  "Aphro- 
dite" flamed  from  every  hoarding  in  the  place, 
Hercule  met  her  with  encouraging  words,  but 
the  ordeal  was  not  one  that  she  wished  to  discuss 
with  him,  and  he  took  leave  of  her  very  much 
afraid  that  she  would  break  down. 

What  was  his  astonishment  to  hear  her  greeted 
with  salvos  of  applause!  Blond's  enterprise  had 
undoubtedly  done  the  trick.  The  little  hall 
rocked  with  enthusiasm,  and,  cloaked  in  a  volu- 
minous garment,  "Aphrodite"  had  to  bow  her 
acknowledgments  again  and  again.  When  the 
time  came  for  Hercule's  own  postures,  they  fell, 
by  comparison,  quite  flat. 

"Ciel!"  she  babbled,  on  the  homeward  walk; 
"who  would  have  supposed  that  I  should  go  so 
strong?  If  I  knock  them  like  this  next  week  too, 
I  shall  make  Blond  spring  a  bit  more!"  She 
looked  towards  her  lover  for  congratulations;  so 
far  he  had  been  rather  unsatisfactory. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  mumbled,  "it  was  a  very  good 
audience,  you  know,  I  never  saw  a  more  generous 
house — you  can't  expect  to  catch  on  like  it  any- 
where else." 

His  tone  puzzled  her.  Though  she  was  quite 
alive  to  the  weaknesses  of  her  profession,  she 
could  not  believe  that  her  triumph  could  give 
umbrage  to  her  fiance.    Hercule,  her  adorer,  to 


gS2         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

be  annoyed  because  she  had  received  more 
"hands"  than  he  had?  Oh,  it  was  mean  of  her 
to  fancy  such  a  thing! 

But  she  was  conscious  that  he  had  never 
wished  her  "pleasant  dreams"  so  briefly  as  he 
did  that  night,  and  the  Strong  Man,  on  his  side, 
was  conscious  of  a  strange  depression.  He  could 
not  shake  it  off.  The  next  evening,  too,  he  felt 
it.  Wherever  he  went,  he  heard  praises  of  her 
proportions.  The  dancing  girl  had,  in  fact, 
proved  to  be  beautifully  formed,  and  it  could 
not  be  disputed  that  "Aphrodite"  had  wiped 
"Hercules"  out.  Her  success  was  repeated  in 
every  town.  Morosely  now  did  he  make  his 
biceps  jump,  and  exhibit  the  splendours  of  his 
back — ^his  poses  commanded  no  more  than  half 
the  admiration  evoked  by  hers.  His  muscles 
had  been  eclipsed  by  her  graces.  Her  body  had 
outvied  his  own! 

Oh,  she  was  dear  to  him,  but  he  was  an 
"artiste"!  There  are  trials  that  an  artiste  can- 
not bear.  He  hesitated  to  refer  to  the  subject, 
but  when  he  nursed  her  on  his  lap,  he  thought 
what  a  great  fool  the  Public  was  to  prefer  this 
ordinary  woman  to  a  marvellous  man.  He  de- 
rived less  rapture  from  nursing  her.  He  eyed 
her  critically.  His  devotion  was  cankered  by 
resentment. 


HERCULES  AND  APHRODITE     333 

And  each  evening  the  resentment  deepened. 
And  each  evening  it  forced  him  to  the  wings 
against  his  will.  He  stood  watching,  though 
every  burst  of  approval  wrung  his  heart.  Soured, 
and  sexless,  he  watched  her.  An  intense  jealousy 
of  the  slim  nude  figure  posturing  in  the  limelight 
took  possession  of  him.  It  had  robbed  him  of 
his  plaudits!  He  grew  to  hate  it,  to  loathe  the 
white  loveliness  that  had  dethroned  him.  It  was 
no  longer  the  figure  of  a  mistress  that  he  viewed, 
but  the  figure  of  a  rival.  If  he  had  dared,  he 
would  have  hissed  her. 

Finally,  he  found  it  impossible  to  address  her 
with  civility.  And  Clairette  married  Flouflou, 
after  all. 

"Clairette,"  said  Flouflou  on  the  day  they 
were  engaged,  ''if  you  don't  chuck  the  Statuary 
turn,  I  know  that  one  night  I  shall  massacre  the 
audience!    Won't  you  give  it  up  for  me,  peach?" 

''So  you  are  beginning  your  ructions  already?" 
laughed  Clairette.  "I  told  you  what  a  handful 
you  would  be.  Oh,  well  then,  just  as  you  like, 
old  dear! — in  this  business  a  girl  may  meet  with 
a  worse  kind  of  jealousy  than  yours." 


"PARDON,  YOU  ARE  MADEMOI- 
SELLE GIRARD!" 

A  NEWSVENDOR  passed  along  the  terrace  of  the 
Cafe  d'Harcourt  bawling  La  Voix  Parisienne. 
The  Frenchman  at  my  table  made  a  gesture  of 
aversion.    Our  eyes  met ;  I  said : 

"You  do  not  like  La  Voixr 

He  answered  with  intensity: 

"I  loathe  it." 

"What's  its  offence?" 

The  wastrel  frowned;  he  fiddled  with  his 
frayed  and  filthy  collar. 

"You  revive  painful  associations;  you  ask  me 
for  a  humiliating  story,"  he  murmured — and  re- 
garded his  empty  glass. 

I  can  take  a  hint  as  well  as  most  people. 

He  prepared  his  poison  reflectively. 

"I  will  tell  you  all,"  he  said. 

One  autumn  the  Editor  of  La  Voioc  announced 
to  the  assistant-editor:  "I  have  a  great  idea  for 
booming  the  paper." 

The  assistant-editor  gazed  at  him  respectfully. 

334 


*TARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD!"  335 

''I  propose  to  prove,  in  the  public  interest, 
the  difficulty  of  tracing  a  missing  person.  I  shall 
instruct  a  member  of  the  staff  to  disappear.  I 
shall  publish  his  description,  and  his  portrait; 
and  I  shall  offer  a  prize  to  the  first  stranger  who 
identifies  him." 

The  assistant-editor  had  tact  and  he  did  not 
reply  that  the  idea  had  already  been  worked  in 
London  with  a  disappearing  lady.    He  replied: 

"What  an  original  scheme!" 

"It  might  be  even  more  effective  that  the  dis- 
appearing person  should  be  a  lady,"  added  the 
chief,  like  one  inspired. 

"That,"  cried  the  assistant-editor,  "is  the  top 
brick  of  genius !" 

So  the  Editor  reviewed  the  brief  list  of  his  lady 
contributors,  and  sent  for  mademoiselle  Girard. 

His  choice  fell  upon  mademoiselle  Girard  for 
two  reasons.  First,  she  was  not  facially  remark- 
able— a  smudgy  portrait  of  her  would  look  much 
like  a  smudgy  portrait  of  anybody  else.  Second, 
she  was  not  widely  known  in  Paris,  being  at  the 
beginning  of  her  career;  in  fact  she  was  so  in- 
experienced that  hitherto  she  had  been  entrusted 
only  with  criticism. 

However,  the  young  woman  had  all  her  but- 
tons on ;  and  after  he  had  talked  to  her,  she  said 
cheerfully: 


336         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

''Without  a  chaperon  I  should  be  conspicuous, 
and  without  a  fat  purse  I  should  be  handicapped. 
So  it  is  understood  that  I  am  to  provide  myself 
with  a  suitable  companion,  and  to  draw  upon  the 
office  for  expenses?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  returned  the  Editor,  "the 
purpose  of  the  paper  is  to  portray  a  drama  of 
life,  not  to  emulate  an  opera  bouffe.  I  shall 
explain  more  fully.  Please  figure  to  yourself 
that  you  are  a  young  girl  in  an  unhappy  home. 
Let  us  suppose  that  a  stepmother  is  at  fault. 
You  feel  that  you  can  submit  to  her  oppression 
no  longer — ^you  resolve  to  be  free,  or  to  end  your 
troubles  in  the  Seine.  Weeping,  you  pack  your 
modest  handbag;  you  cast  a  last,  lingering  look 
at  the  oil  painting  of  your  own  dear  mother  who 
is  with  the  Angels  in  the  drawing-room;  that  is 
to  say,  of  your  own  dear  mother  in  the  drawing- 
room,  who  is  with  the  Angels.  It  still  hangs 
there — ^your  father  has  insisted  on  it.  Unheard, 
you  steal  from  the  house;  the  mysterious  city  of 
Paris  stretches  before  your  friendless  feet.  Can 
you  engage  a  chaperon?  Can  you  draw  upon 
an  office  for  expenses?  The  idea  is  laughable. 
You  have  saved,  at  a  liberal  computation,  forty 
francs;  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  find  employ- 
ment without  delay.  But  what  happens?  Your 
father  is  distracted  by  your  loss,  the  thought  of 


"PARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD!'    837 

the  perils  that  beset  you  frenzies  him;  he  invokes 
the  aid  of  the  police.     Well,  the  object  of  our 
experiment  is  to  demonstrate  that,  in  spite  of  an 
advertised  reward,  in  spite  of  a  published  por- 
trait,  in  spite  of  the  Public's  zeal  itself,  you 
will  be  passed  on  the  boulevards  and  in  the  slums 
by  myriads  of  unsuspecting  eyes  for  weeks." 
The  girl  inquired,  much  less  blithely: 
"How  long  is  this  experiment  to  continue?" 
"It  will  continue  until  you  are  identified,  of 
course.     The  longer  the  period,  the  more  trium- 
phant our  demonstration." 

"And  I  am  to  have  no  more  than  forty  francs 
to  exist  on  all  the  time?  Monsieur,  the  job  does 
not  call  to  me." 

"You  are  young  and  you  fail  to  grasp  the 
value  of  your  opportunity,"  said  the  Editor,  with 
paternal  tolerance.  "From  such  an  assignment 
you  will  derive  experiences  that  will  be  of  the 
highest  benefit  to  your  future.  Rejoice,  my 
child!  Very  soon  I  shall  give  you  final  instruc- 
tions." 

The  Frenchman  lifted  nis  glass,  which  was 
again  empty. 

"I  trust  my  voice  does  not  begin  to  grate  upon 
you?"  he  asked  solicitously.  "Much  talking 
affects  my  uvula." 


338         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

I  made  a  trite  inquiry. 

He  answered  that,  since  I  was  so  pressing,  he 
would ! 

''Listen,"  he  resumed,  after  a  sip. 

I  am  not  in  a  position  to  say  whether  the 
young  lady  humoured  the  Editor  by  rejoicing, 
but  she  obeyed  him  by  going  forth.  Her  portrait 
was  duly  pubhshed.  La  Voioo  professed  ignorance 
of  her  whereabouts  from  the  moment  that  she 
left  the  rue  Louis-le-Grand,  and  a  prize  of  two 
thousand  francs  was  to  reward  the  first  stranger 
who  said  to  her,  "Pardon,  you  are  mademoiselle 
Girard!"  In  every  issue  the  Public  were  urged 
towards  more  strenuous  efforts  to  discover  her, 
and  all  Paris  bought  the  paper,  with  amusement, 
to  learn  if  she  was  found  yet. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  week,  misgivings  were 
ingeniously  hinted  as  to  her  fate.  On  the  tenth 
day  the  Editor  printed  a  letter  (which  he  had 
written  himself),  hotly  condemning  him  for 
exposing  a  poor  girl  to  danger.  It  was  signed 
"An  Indignant  Parent,"  and  teemed  with  the 
most  stimulating  suggestions.  Copies  of  La 
Voix  were  as  prevalent  as  gingerbread  pigs  at  a 
fair.  When  a  fortnight  had  passed,  the  prize  was 
increased  to  three  thousand  francs,  and  many 
young  men  resigned  less  promising  occupations, 


"PARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD!'  339 

such  as  authorship  and  the  fine  arts,  in  order  to 
devote  themselves  exclusively  to  the  search. 

Personally,  I  had  something  else  to  do.  I  am 
an  author,  as  you  may  have  divined  by  the 
rhythm  of  my  impromptu  phrases,  but  it  hap- 
pened at  that  time  that  a  play  of  mine  had  been 
accepted  at  the  Grand  Guignol,  subject  to  an 
additional  thrill  being  introduced,  and  I  pre- 
ferred pondering  for  a  thrill  in  my  garret  to 
hunting  for  a  pin  in  a  haystack. 

Enfin,  I  completed  the  drama  to  the  Manage- 
ment's satisfaction,  and  received  a  comely  little 
cheque  in  payment.  It  was  the  first  cheque  that 
I  had  seen  for  years!  I  danced  with  joy,  I  paid 
for  a  shampoo,  I  committed  no  end  of  follies. 

(How  good  is  life  when  one  is  rich — immedi- 
ately one  joins  the  optimists!  I  feared  the  future 
no  longer;  I  was  hungry,  and  I  let  my  appetite 
do  as  it  liked  with  me.  I  lodged  in  Montmartre, 
and  it  was  my  custom  to  eat  at  the  unpreten- 
tious Bel  Avenir,  when  I  ate  at  all;  but  that 
morning  my  mood  demanded  something  re- 
splendent. Rumours  had  reached  me  of  a  certain 
Cafe  Eclatant,  where  for  one-franc-fifty  one 
might  breakfast  on  five  epicurean  courses  amid 
palms  and  plush.  I  said  I  would  go  the  pace.  I 
adventured  the  Cafe  Eclatant. 

The  interior  realised  my  most  sanguine  ex- 


340         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

pectations.  The  room  would  have  done  no  dis- 
credit to  the  Grand  Boulevard.  I  was  so  much 
exhilarated,  that  I  ordered  a  half  bottle  of 
barsac,  though  I  noted  that  here  it  cost  ten  sous 
more  than  at  the  Bel  Avenir,  and  I  prepared  to 
enjoy  the  unwonted  extravagance  of  my  repast 
to  the  concluding  crumb. 

Monsieur,  there  are  events  in  life  of  which  it 
is  difficult  to  speak  without  bitterness.  When  I 
recall  the  disappointment  of  that  dejeuner  at  the 
Cafe  Eclatant,  my  heart  swells  with  rage.  The 
soup  was  slush,  the  fish  tasted  like  washing,  the 
meat  was  rags.  Dessert  consisted  of  wizened 
grapes ;  the  one  thing  fit  to  eat  was  the  cheese. 

As  I  meditated  on  the  sum  I  had  squandered, 
I  could  have  cried  with  mortification,  and,  to 
make  matters  more  pathetic  still,  I  was  as  hungry 
as  ever.  I  sat  seeking  some  caustic  epigram  to 
wither  the  dame-de-comptoir ;  and  presently  the 
door  opened  and  another  victim  entered.  Her 
face  was  pale  and  interesting.  I  saw,  by  her 
hesitation,  that  the  place  was  strange  to  her.  An 
accomplice  of  the  chief  brigand  pounced  on  her 
immediately,  and  bore  her  to  a  table  opposite. 
The  misguided  girl  was  about  to  waste  one-franc- 
fifty.  I  felt  that  I  owed  a  duty  to  her  in  this 
crisis.  The  moment  called  for  instant  action; 
before  she  could  decide  between  slush  and  hors 


^TARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD!"  341 

d'oeuvres,  I  pulled  an  envelope  from  my  pocket, 
scribbled  a  warning,  and  expressed  it  to  her  by 
the  robber  who  had  brought  my  bill. 

I  had  written,  "The  dejeuner  is  dreadful. 
Escape!" 

It  reached  her  in  the  nick  of  time.  She  read 
the  wrong  side  of  the  envelope  first,  and  was 
evidently  puzzled.  Then  she  turned  it  over.  A 
look  of  surprise,  a  look  of  thankfulness,  rendered 
her  still  more  fascinating.  I  perceived  that  she 
was  inventing  an  excuse — ^that  she  pretended  to 
have  forgotten  something.  She  rose  hastily  and 
went  out.  My  barsac  was  finished — shocking  bad 
tipple  it  was  for  the  money! — and  now  I,  too,  got 
up  and  left.  When  I  issued  into  the  street,  I 
found  her  waiting  for  me. 

"I  think  you  are  the  knight  to  whom  my 
gratitude  is  due,  monsieur?"  she  murmured 
graciously. 

"Mademoiselle,  you  magnify  the  importance 
of  my  service,"  said  I. 

"It  was  a  gallant  deed,"  she  insisted.  "You 
have  saved  me  from  a  great  misfortune — perhaps 
greater  than  you  understand.  My  finances  are 
at  their  lowest  ebb,  and  to  have  beggared  myself 
for  an  impossible  meal  would  have  been  no  joke. 
Thanks  to  you,  I  may  still  breakfast  satisfac- 
torily somewhere  else.     Is  it  treating  you  like 


342         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Baedeker's  Guide  to  the  Continent  if  I  ask  you 
to  recommend  a  restaurant?" 

"Upon  my  word,  I  doubt  if  you  can  do  better 
than  the  Bel  Avenir,"  I  said.  "A  moment  ago 
I  was  lacerated  T^dth  regret  that  I  had  not  gone 
there.  But  there  is  a  silver  lining  to  every  hash- 
house,  and  my  choice  of  the  Eclatant  has  pro- 
cured me  the  glory  of  your  greeting." 

She  averted  her  gaze  with  a  faint  smile.  She 
had  certainly  charm.  Admiration  and  hunger 
prompted  me  to  further  recklessness.  I  said: 
"This  five-course  swindle  has  left  me  ravenous, 
and  I  am  bound  for  the  Avenir  myself.  May  I 
beg  for  the  rapture  of  your  company  there?" 

"Monsieur,  you  overwhelm  me  with  chival- 
ries," she  replied;  "I  shall  be  enchanted."  And, 
five  minutes  later,  the  Incognita  and  I  were  pol- 
ishing off  smoked  herring  and  potato  salad,  like 
people  who  had  no  time  to  lose. 

"Do  you  generally  come  here?"  she  asked, 
when  we  had  leisure. 

"Infrequently — no  oftener  than  I  have  a  franc 
in  my  pocket.  But  details  of  my  fasts  would 
form  a  poor  recital,  and  I  make  a  capital  lis- 
tener." 

"You  also  make  a  capital  luncheon,"  she  re- 
marked. 

"Do  not  prevaricate,"  I  said  severely.    "I  am 


"PARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD!"  343 

consumed  with  impatience  to  hear  the  history 
of  your  hfe.    Be  merciful  and  communicative." 

"Well,  I  am  young,  fair,  accomplished,  and  of 
an  amiable  disposition,"  she  began,  leaning  her 
elbows  on  the  table. 

"These  things  are  obvious.  Come  to  confi- 
dences !    What  is  your  profession?" 

"By  profession  I  am  a  clairvoyante  and 
palmist,"  she  announced. 

I  gave  her  my  hand  at  once,  and  I  was  in  two 
minds  about  giving  her  my  heart.  "Proceed,"  I 
told  her;  "reveal  my  destiny!" 

Her  air  was  profoundly  mystical. 

"In  the  days  of  your  youth,"  she  proclaimed, 
''your  line  of  authorship  is  crossed  by  many  re- 
jections." 

"Oh,  I  am  an  author,  hein?  That's  a  fine  thing 
in  guesses!" 

"It  is  written!"  she  affirmed,  still  scrutinising 
my  palm.  "Your  dramatic  lines  are — er — count- 
less ;  some  of  them  are  good.  I  see  danger ;  you 
should  beware  of — ^I  cannot  distinguish!"  she 
clasped  her  brow  and  shivered.  "Ah,  I  have  itl 
You  should  beware  of  hackneyed  situations." 

"So  the  Drama  is  'written,'  too,  is  it?" 

"It  is  written,  and  I  discern  that  it  is  already 
accepted,"  she  said.  "For  at  the  juncture  where 
the  Eclatant  is  eclipsed  by  the  Cafe  du  Bel 


S44         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Avenir,  there  is  a  distinct  manifestation  of 
cash." 

"Marvellous!"  I  exclaimed.  "And  will  the 
sybil  explain  why  she  surmised  that  I  was  a 
dramatic  author?" 

"Even  so!"  she  boasted.  "You  wrote  your 
message  to  me  on  an  envelope  from  the  Dramatic 
Authors'  Society.  What  do  you  think  of  my 
palmistry?" 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  think  it  is  your 
career.  You  are  more  likely  an  author  yourself, 
or  an  actress,  or  a  journalist.  Perhaps  you  are 
mademoiselle  Girard.  Mon  Dieu !  What  a  piece 
of  luck  for  me  if  I  found  mademoiselle  Girard!" 

"And  what  a  piece  of  luck  for  her!" 

"Why  for  her?" 

"Well,  she  cannot  be  having  a  rollicking  time. 
It  would  not  break  her  heart  to  be  found,  one 
may  be  certain." 

"In  that  case,"  I  said,  "she  has  only  to  give 
some  one  the  tip." 

"Oh,  that  would  be  dishonourable — she  has  a 
duty  to  fulfil  to  JLa  Voix,  she  must  wait  till  she 
is  identified.  And,  remember,  there  must  be  no 
half  measures — the  young  man  must  have  the 
intuition  to  say  firmly,  Tardon,  you  are  made- 
moiselle Girard!' " 

Her  earnest  gaze  met  mine  for  an  instant. 


"PARDON,  YOU  ARE  LILLE.  GIRARD!'^  345 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  I  said,  "I  do  not  see 
how  anyone  can  be  expected  to  identify  her  in 
the  street.  The  portrait  shows  her  without  a  hat, 
and  a  hat  makes  a  tremendous  difference." 

She  sighed. 

"What  is  your  trouble?"  I  asked. 

"Man!" 

"Man?  Tell  me  his  address,  that  I  may  slay 
him." 

"The  whole  sex.  Its  impenetrable  stupidity. 
If  mademoiselle  Girard  is  ever  recognised  it  will 
be  by  a  woman.    Man  has  no  instinct." 

"May  one  inquire  the  cause  of  these  flattering 
reflections?" 

Her  laughter  pealed. 

"Let  us  talk  of  something  else!"  she  com- 
manded. "When  does  your  play  come  out,  mon- 
sieur Thibaud  Hippolyte  Duboc?  You  see  I 
learnt  your  name,  too." 

"You  have  all  the  advantages,"  I  complained. 
"Will  you  take  a  second  cup  of  coffee,  made- 
moiselle— er ?" 

"No,  thank  you,  monsieur,"  she  said. 

"Well,  will  you  take  a  liqueur,  mademoiselle — 
er ?" 

"Mademoiselle  Er  will  not  take  a  liqueur 
either,"  she  pouted. 

"Well,  will  you  take  a  walk?" 


346         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

In  the  end  we  took  an  omnibus,  and  then  we 
proceeded  to  the  Buttes-Chaumont — and  very 
agreeable  I  found  it  there.  We  chose  a  seat  in 
the  shade,  and  I  began  to  feel  that  I  had  known 
her  all  my  life.  More  precisely,  perhaps,  I  began 
to  feel  that  I  wished  to  know  her  all  my  life.  A 
little  breeze  was  whispering  through  the  boughs, 
and  she  lifted  her  face  to  it  gratefully. 

"How  delicious,"  she  said.  "I  should  like  to 
take  off  my  hat." 

"Do,  then!" 

"Shall  I?" 

"Why  not?" 

She  pulled  the  pins  out  slowly,  and  laid  the 
hat  aside,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  me,  smiling. 

"Well?"  she  murmured. 

"You  are  beautiful." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"What  more  would  you  have  me  say?" 

The  glare  of  sunshine  mellowed  while  we 
talked ;  clocks  struck  unheeded  by  me.  It  amazed 
me  at  last,  to  discover  how  long  she  had  held  me 
captive.  Still,  I  knew  nothing  of  her  affairs, 
excepting  that  she  was  hard  up — ^that,  by  com- 
parison, I  was  temporarily  prosperous.  I  did 
not  even  know  where  she  meant  to  go  when  we 
moved,  nor  did  it  appear  necessary  to  inquire 
yet,  for  the  sentiment  in  her  tones  assured  me 


"PARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD  !'^  347 

that  she  would  dismiss  me  with  no  heartless  haste. 

Two  men  came  strolling  past  the  bench,  and 
one  of  them  stared  at  her  so  impudently  that  I 
burned  with  indignation.  After  looking  duels  at 
him,  I  turned  to  her,  to  deprecate  his  rudeness. 
Judge  of  my  dismay  when  I  perceived  that  she 
was  shuddering  with  emotion!  Jealousy  black- 
ened the  gardens  to  me. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  faltered. 

"You  don't  know?    But  you  are  trembling?" 

"Ami?" 

"I  ask  you  who  he  is?  How  he  dared  to  look 
at  you  like  that?" 

"Am  I  responsible  for  the  way  a  loafer  looks?" 

"You  are  responsible  for  your  agitation ;  I  ask 
you  to  explain  it!" 

"And  by  what  right,  after  all?" 

"By  what  right?  Wretched,  false-hearted 
girl !  Has  our  communion  for  hours  given  me  no 
rights?  Am  I  a  Frenchman  or  a  flounder? 
Answer;  you  are  condemning  me  to  tortures! 
Why  did  you  tremble  under  that  man's  eyes?" 

"I  was  afraid,"  she  stammered. 

"Afraid?" 

"Afraid  that  he  had  recognised  me." 

"Mon  Dieu!    Of  what  are  you  guilty?" 

"I  am  not  guilty." 


348         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"Of  what  are  you  accused  ?" 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing/'  she  gasped. 

''You  shall  tell  me  all!"  I  swore.  "In  the 
name  of  my  love  I  demand  it  of  you.  Speak  I 
Why  did  you  fear  his  recognition?" 

Her  head  drooped  pitifully. 

"Because  I  wanted  you  to  recognise  me  first!" 

For  a  tense  moment  I  gazed  at  her  bewildered. 
In  the  next,  I  cursed  myself  for  a  fool — I  blushed 
for  my  suspicions,  my  obtuseness — I  sought 
dizzily  the  words,  the  prescribed  words  that  I 
must  speak. 

"Pardon,"  I  shouted,  "you  are  mademoiselle 
Girard!" 

She  sobbed. 

"What  have  I  done?" 

"You  have  done  a  great  and  generous  thing! 
I  am  humbled  before  you.  I  bless  you.  I  don't 
know  how  I  could  have  been  such  a  dolt  as  not 
to  guess !" 

"Oh,  how  I  wish  you  had  guessed!  You  have 
been  so  kind  to  me,  I  longed  for  you  to  guess! 
And  now  I  have  betrayed  a  trust.  I  have  been 
a  bad  journalist." 

"You  have  been  a  good  friend.  Courage! 
No  one  will  ever  hear  what  hais  happened.  And, 
anyhow,  it  is  all  the  same  to  the  paper  whether 
the  prize  is  paid  to  me,  or  to  somebody  else." 


^TARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD!"  349 

''Yes/'  she  admitted.  "That  is  true.  Oh, 
when  that  man  turned  round  and  looked  at  me, 
I  thought  your  chance  had  gone!  I  made  sure 
it  was  all  over!  Well" — she  forced  a  smile — "it 
is  no  use  my  being  sorry,  is  it?  Mademoiselle 
Girard  is 'found'!" 

"But  you  must  not  be  sorry,"  I  said.  "Come, 
a  disagreeable  job  is  finished!  And  you  have 
the  additional  satisfaction  of  knowing  the  money 
goes  to  a  fellow  you  don't  altogether  dislike. 
What  do  I  have  to  do  about  it,  hein?" 

"You  must  telegraph  to  La  Voioc  at  once  that 
you  have  identified  me.  Then,  in  the  morning 
you  should  go  to  the  office.  I  can  depend  upon 
you,  can't  I?  You  will  never  give  me  away  to 
a  living  soul?" 

"Word  of  honour!"  I  vowed.  "What  do  you 
take  me  for?  Do  tell  me  you  don't  regret! 
There's  a  dear.    Tell  me  you  don't  regret." 

She  threw  back  her  head  dauntlessly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  regret.  Only,  in 
justice  to  me,  remember  that  I  was  treacherous 
in  order  to  do  a  turn  to  you,  not  to  escape  my 
own  discomforts.  To  be  candid,  I  believe  that  I 
wish  we  had  met  in  two  or  three  weeks'  time, 
instead  of  to-day !" 

"Why  that?" 

"In  two  or  three  weeks'  time  the  prize  was  to 


S50         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

be  raised  to  five  thousand  francs,  to  keep  up  the 
excitement." 

"Ciel!"  I  cried.  "Five  thousand  francs?  Do 
you  know  that  positively?" 

"Oh,  yes!"     She  nodded.     "It  is  arranged." 

Five  thousand  francs  would  have  been  a  for- 
tune to  me. 

Neither  of  us  spoke  for  some  seconds.  Then, 
continuing  my  thoughts  aloud,  I  said: 

"After  all,  why  should  I  telegraph  at  once? 
What  is  to  prevent  my  waiting  the  two  or  three 
weeks?" 

"Oh,  to  allow  you  to  do  that  would  be  scandal- 
ous of  me,"  she  demurred;  "I  should  be  actually 
swindling  La  Voice/" 

''La  Voice  will  obtain  a  magnificent  advertise- 
ment for  its  outlay,  which  is  all  that  it  desires," 
I  argued;  "the  boom  will  be  worth  five  thousand 
francs  to  La  Voioo,  there  is  no  question  of  swind- 
ling. Five  thousand  francs  is  a  sum  with  which 
one  might " 

"It  can't  be  done,"  she  persisted. 

"To  a  man  in  my  position,"  I  said,  "five  thou- 
sand francs " 

"It  is  impossible  for  another  reason!  As  I 
told  you,  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  resources.  I 
rose  this  morning,  praying  that  I  should  be  iden- 
tified.    My  landlady  has  turned  me  out,  and  I 


"PARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD!"  351 

have  no  more  than  the  price  of  one  meal  to  go 
on  with." 

'*You  goose!"  I  laughed.  "And  if  I  were 
going  to  net  five  thousand  francs  by  your  tip 
three  weeks  hence,  don't  you  suppose  it  would 
be  good  enough  for  me  to  pay  your  expenses  in 
the  meanwhile?" 

She  was  silent  again.  I  understood  that  her 
conscience  was  a  more  formidable  drawback  than 
her  penury. 

Monsieur,  I  said  that  you  had  asked  me  for  a 
humiliating  story — ^that  I  had  poignant  memories 
connected  with  La  Voioo.  Here  is  one  of  them: 
I  set  myself  to  override  her  scruples — ^to  render 
this  girl  false  to  her  employers. 

Many  men  might  have  done  so  without  re- 
morse. But  not  a  man  like  me;  I  am  naturally 
high-minded,  of  the  most  sensitive  honour.  Even 
when  I  conquered  at  last,  I  could  not  triumph. 
Far  from  it.  I  blamed  the  force  of  circumstances 
furiously  for  compelling  me  to  sacrifice  my  prin- 
ciples to  my  purse.    I  am  no  adventurer,  hein? 

Enfin,  the  problem  now  was,  where  was  I  to 
hide  her?  Her  portmanteau  she  had  deposited 
at  a  railway  station.  Should  we  have  it  removed 
to  another  bedroom,  or  to  a  pension  de  famille? 
Both  plans  were  open  to  objections — a  bedroom 
would  necessitate  her  still  challenging  discovery 


852         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

in  restaurants;  and  at  a  pension  de  famille  she 
would  run  risks  on  the  premises.  A  pretty  kettle 
of  fish  if  someone  spotted  her  while  I  was  hold- 
ing for  the  rise! 

We  debated  the  point  exhaustively.  And,  hav- 
ing yielded,  she  displayed  keen  intelligence  in 
arranging  for  the  best.    Finally  she  declared : 

"Of  the  two  things,  a  pension  de  famille  is  to 
be  preferred.  Instal  me  there  as  your  sister! 
Remember  that  people  picture  me  a  wanderer 
and  alone ;  therefore,  a  lady  who  is  introduced  by 
her  brother  is  in  small  danger  of  being  recognized 
as  mademoiselle  Girard." 

She  was  right,  I  perceived  it.  We  found  an 
excellent  house,  where  I  was  unknown.  I  pre- 
sented her  as  "mademoiselle  Henriette  Delafosse, 
my  sister."  And,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  I  en- 
gaged a  private  sitting-room  for  her,  explaining 
that  she  was  somewhat  neurasthenic. 

Good !  I  waited  breathless  now  for  every  edi- 
tion of  La  Voioo,  thinking  that  her  price  might 
advance  even  sooner.  But  she  closed  at  three 
thousand  francs  daily.  Girard  stood  firm,  but 
there  was  no  upward  tendency.  Every  afternoon 
I  called  on  her.  She  talked  about  that  conscience 
of  hers  again  sometimes,  and  it  did  not  prove 
quite  so  delightful  as  I  had  expected,  when  I 


^TARDON,  YOU  ARE  MLLE.  GIRARD!"  353 

paid  a  visit.  Especially  when  I  paid  a  bill  as 
well. 

Monsieur,  my  disposition  is  most  liberal.  But 
when  I  had  been  mulcted  in  the  second  bill,  I 
confess  that  I  became  a  trifle  downcast.  I  had 
prepared  myself  to  nourish  the  girl  wholesomely, 
as  befitted  the  circumstances,  but  I  had  said 
nothing  of  vin  superieur,  and  I  noted  that  she 
had  been  asking  for  it  as  if  it  were  cider  in  Nor- 
mandy. The  list  of  extras  in  those  bills  gave 
me  the  jumps,  and  the  charges  made  for  scented 
soap  were  nothing  short  of  an  outrage. 

Well,  there  was  but  one  more  week  to  bear 
now,  and  during  the  week  I  allowed  her  to  revel. 
This,  though  I  was  approaching  embarrassments 
re  the  rent  of  my  own  attic ! 

How  strange  is  life!  Who  shall  foretell  the 
future?  I  had  wrestled  with  my  self-respect,  I 
had  nursed  an  investment  which  promised  stu- 
pendous profits  were  I  capable  of  carrying  my 
scheme  to  a  callous  conclusion.  But  could  I  do 
it?  Did  I  claim  the  prize,  which  had  already 
cost  me  so  much?  Monsieur,  you  are  a  man  of 
the  world,  a  judge  of  character:  I  ask  you,  did 
I  claim  the  prize,  or  did  I  not? 

He  threw  himself  back  in  the  chair,  and  toyed 
significantly  v/ith  his  empty  glass. 


354         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

I  regarded  him,  his  irresolute  mouth,  his  re- 
ceding chin,  his  unquenchable  thirst  for  absinthe. 
I  regarded  him  and  I  paid  him  no  compliments. 
I  said: 

"You  claimed  the  prize." 

"You  have  made  a  bloomer,"  he  answered.  "I 
did  not  claim  it.  The  prize  was  claimed  by  the 
wife  of  a  piano-tuner,  who  had  discovered  made- 
moiselle Girard  employed  iii  the  artificial  flower 
department  of  the  Printemps.  I  read  the  blood- 
curdling news  at  nine  o'clock  on  a  Friday  even- 
ing; and  at  9:15,  when  I  hurled  myself,  panic- 
stricken,  into  the  pension  de  f  amille,  the  impostor 
who  had  tricked  me  out  of  three  weeks'  board 
and  lodging  had  already  done  a  bolt.  I  have 
never  had  the  joy  of  meeting  her  since." 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON 

One  day  Tricotrin  had  eighty  francs,  and  he 
said  to  Pitou,  who  was  no  less  prosperous, 
"Good-bye  to  follies,  for  we  have  arrived  at  an 
epoch  in  our  careers!  Do  not  let  us  waste  our 
substance  on  trivial  pleasures,  or  paying  the  land- 
lord— let  us  make  it  a  provision  for  our  future !" 

"I  rejoice  to  hear  you  speak  for  once  like  a 
business-man,"  returned  Pitou.  ''Do  you  recom- 
mend gilt-edged  securities,  or  an  investment  in 
land?" 

"I  would  suggest,  rather,  that  we  apply  our 
riches  to  some  educational  purpose,  such  as 
travel,"  explained  the  poet,  producing  a  railway 
company's  handbill.  "By  this  means  we  shall 
enlarge  our  minds,  and  somebody  has  pretended 
that  'knowledge  is  power' — it  must  have  been 
the  principal  of  a  school.  It  is  not  for  nothing 
that  we  have  I'Entente  Cordiale — ^you  may  now 
spend  a  Sunday  in  London  at  about  the  cost  of 
one  of  Madeleine's  hats." 

"These  London  Sunday  baits  may  be  a  plot  of 
the  English  Government  to  exterminate  us;  I 

355 


356         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

have  read  that  none  but  English  people  can  sur- 
vive a  Sunday  in  London." 

"No,  it  is  not  that,  for  we  are  offered  the 
choice  of  a  town  called  'Eastbourne.'  Listen, 
they  tell  me  that  in  London  the  price  of  cigarettes 
is  so  much  lower  than  with  us  that,  to  a  bold 
smuggler,  the  trip  is  a  veritable  economy. 
Matches  too!  Matches  are  so  cheap  in  England 
that  the  practice  of  steahng  them  from  cafe 
tables  has  not  been  introduced." 

"Well,  your  synopsis  will  be  considered,  and 
reported  on  in  due  course,"  announced  the  com- 
poser, after  a  pause;  "but  at  the  moment  of 
going  to  press  we  would  rather  buy  a  hat  for 
Madeleine." 

And  as  Madeleine  also  thought  that  this  would 
be  better  for  him,  it  was  decided  that  Tricotrin 
should  set  forth  alone. 

His  departure  for  a  foreign  country  was  a 
solemn  event.  A  small  party  of  the  Montmartrois 
had  marched  with  him  to  the  station,  and  more 
than  once,  in  view  of  their  anxious  faces,  the 
young  man  acknowledged  mentally  that  he  was 
committed  to  a  harebrained  scheme. 

"Heaven  protect  thee,  my  comrade!"  faltered 
Pitou.  "Is  thy  vocabulary  safely  in  thy  pocket? 
Remember  that  'un  bock'  is  'glass  of  beer.' " 

"Here  is  a  small  packet  of  chocolate,"  mur- 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON        357 

mured  Lajeunie,  embracing  him;  "in  England, 
nothing  to  eat  can  be  obtained  on  Sunday,  and 
chocolate  is  very  sustaining." 

*'And  listen!"  shouted  Sanquereau;  "on  no 
account  take  off  thy  hat  to  strangers,  nor  laugh 
in  the  streets;  the  first  is  'mad'  over  there,  and 
the  second  is  'immoral.'  May  le  bon  Dieu  have 
thee  in  His  keeping!  We  count  the  hours  till 
thy  return!" 

Then  the  train  sped  out  into  the  night,  and 
the  poet  realised  that  home  and  friends  were  left 
behind. 

He  would  have  been  less  than  a  poet  if,  in  the 
first  few  minutes,  the  pathos  of  the  situation  had 
not  gripped  him  by  the  throat.  Vague,  elusive 
fancies  stirred  his  brain;  he  remembered  the 
franc  that  he  owed  at  the  Cafe  du  Bel  Avenir, 
and  wondered  if  madame  would  speak  gently  of 
him  were  he  lost  at  sea.  Tender  memories  of 
past  loves  dimmed  his  eyes,  and  he  reflected  how 
poignant  it  would  be  to  perish  before  the  papers 
would  give  him  any  obituary  notices.  Regarding 
his  fellow  passengers,  he  lamented  that  none  of 
them  was  a  beautiful  girl,  for  it  was  an  occasion 
on  which  woman's  sympathy  would  have  been 
sweet ;  indeed  he  proceeded  to  invent  some  of  the 
things  that  they  might  have  said  to  each  other. 
Inwardly  he  was  still  resenting  the  faces  of  his 


358         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

travelling  companions  when  the  train  reached 
Dieppe. 

"It  is  material  for  my  biography,"  he  solilo- 
quised, as  he  crept  down  the  gangway.  "  Tew 
who  saw  the  young  man  step  firmly  on  to  the 
good  ship's  deck  conjectured  the  emotions  that 
tore  his  heart;  few  recognised  him  to  be  Trico- 
trin,  whose  work  was  at  that  date  practically  un- 
known.' "  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  arouse 
conjectures  of  a  kind,  for  when  the  boat  moved 
from  the  quay,  he  could  not  resist  the  oppor- 
tunity to  murmur,  "My  France,  farewell!"  with 
an  appropriate  gesture. 

His  repose  during  the  night  was  fitful,  and 
when  Victoria  was  reached  at  last,  he  was  con- 
scious of  some  bodily  fatigue.  However,  his 
mind  was  never  slow  to  receive  impressions,  and 
at  the  sight  of  the  scaffolding,  he  whipped  out 
his  note-book  on  the  platform.  He  wrote,  "The 
English  are  extraordinarily  prompt  of  action. 
One  day  it  was  discerned  that  la  gare  Victoria 
was  capable  of  improvement — no  sooner  was  the 
fact  detected  than  an  army  of  contractors  was 
feverishly  enlarging  it."  Pleased  that  his  jour- 
ney was  already  yielding  such  good  results,  the 
poet  lit  a  Caporal,  and  sauntered  through  the 
yard. 

Though  the  sky  promised  a  fine  Sunday,  his 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON        359 

view  of  London  at  this  early  hour  was  not  inspir- 
iting. He  loitered  blankly,  debating  which 
way  to  wander.  Presently  the  outlook  bright- 
ened— ^he  observed  a  very  dainty  pair  of  shoes 
and  ankles  coming  through  the  station  doors. 
Fearing  that  the  face  might  be  unworthy  of 
them,  he  did  not  venture  to  raise  his  gaze  until  the 
girl  had  nearly  reached  the  gate,  but  when  he 
took  the  risk,  he  was  rewarded  by  the  discovery 
that  her  features  were  as  piquant  as  her  feet. 

She  came  towards  him  slowly,  and  now  he  re- 
marked that  she  had  a  grudge  against  Fate;  her 
pretty  lips  were  compressed,  her  beautiful  eyes 
gloomy  with  grievance,  the  fairness  of  her  brow 
was  darkened  by  a  frown.  "Well,"  mused  Tri- 
cotrin,  "though  the  object  of  my  visit  is  educa- 
tional, the  exigencies  of  my  situation  clearly  com- 
pel me  to  ask  this  young  lady  to  direct  me  some- 
where. Can  I  summon  up  enough  English 
before  she  has  passed?" 

It  was  a  trying  moment,  for  already  she  was 
nearly  abreast  of  him.  Forgetful  of  Sanque- 
reau's  instructions,  as  well  as  of  most  of  the 
phrases  that  had  been  committed  to  memory,  the 
poet  swept  off  his  hat,  and  stammered,  "Mees,  I 
beg  your  pardon!" 

She  turned  the  aggrieved  eyes  to  him  inquir- 
ingly.   Although  she  had  paused,  she  made  no 


860         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

answer.  Was  his  accent  so  atrocious  as  all  that? 
For  a  second  they  regarded  each  other  dumbly, 
while  a  blush  of  embarrass(ment  mantled  the 
young  man's  cheeks.  Then,  with  a  little  gesture 
of  apology,  the  girl  said  in  French — 

"I  do  not  speak  English,  monsieur." 

"Oh,  le  bon  Dieu  be  praised!"  cried  Tricotrin, 
for  all  the  world  as  if  he  had  been  back  on  the 
boulevard  Rochechouart.  'T  was  dazed  with 
travel,  or  I  should  have  recognized  you  were  a 
Frenchwoman.  Did  you,  too,  leave  Paris  last 
night,  mademoiselle?" 

"Ah,  no,"  said  the  girl  pensively.  "I  have  been 
in  London  for  months.  I  hoped  to  meet  a  friend 
who  wrote  that  she  would  arrive  this  morning, 
but," — she  sighed — "she  has  not  come!" 

"She  will  arrive  to-night  instead,  no  doubt;  I 
should  have  no  anxiety.  You  may  be  certain  she 
will  arrive  to-night,  and  this  contretemps  will  be 
forgotten." 

She  pouted.  "I  was  looking  forward  so  much 
to  seeing  her!  To  a  stranger  who  cannot  speak 
the  language,  London  is  as  triste  as  a  tomb.  To- 
day, I  was  to  have  had  a  companion,  and 
now " 

"Indeed,  I  sympathise  with  you,"  replied  Tri- 
cotrin.   "But  is  it  really  so — London  is  what  you 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON        361 

say?     You  alarm  me.     I   am  here  absolutely 
alone.    Where,  then,  shall  I  go  this  morning?" 

''There  are  churches,"  she  said,  after  some 
reflection. 

"And  besides?" 

"W-e-11,  there  are  other  churches." 

''Of  course,  such  things  can  be  seen  in  Paris 
also,"  demurred  Tricotrin.  "It  is  not  essential  to 
go  abroad  to  say  one's  prayers.  If  I  may  take 
the  liberty  of  appljdng  to  you,  in  which  direction 
would  you  recommend  me  to  turn  my  steps  ?  For 
example,  where  is  Soho — is  it  too  far  for  a  walk?" 

"No,  monsieur,  it  is  not  very  far — it  is  the 
quarter  in  which  I  lodge." 

"And  do  you  return  there  now?"  he  asked 
eagerly. 

"What  else  is  there  for  me  to  do?  My  friend 
has  not  come,  and " 

"Mademoiselle,"  exclaimed  the  poet,  "I  en- 
treat you  to  have  mercy  on  a  compatriot!  Per- 
mit me,  at  least,  to  seek  Soho  in  your  company — 
do  not,  I  implore  you,  leave  me  homeless  and 
helpless  in  a  strange  land!  I  notice  an  eccentric 
vehicle  which  instinct  whispers  is  an  Enghsh 
'hansom.'  For  years  I  have  aspired  to  drive  in 
an  English  hansom  once.  It  is  in  your  power 
to  fulfil  my  dream  with  effulgence.     Will  you 


362         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

consent  to  instruct  the  acrobat  who  is  perform- 
ing with  a  whip,  and  to  take  a  seat  in  the  English 
hansom  beside  me?" 

''Monsieur/'  responded  the  pretty  girl  graci- 
ously, "I  shall  be  charmed;"  and,  romantic  as 
the  incident  appears,  the  next  minute  they  were 
driving  along  Victoria  Street  together. 

"The  good  kind  fairies  have  certainly  taken  me 
under  their  wings,"  declared  Tricotrin,  as  he  ad- 
mired his  companion's  profile.  "It  was  worth 
enduring  the  pangs  of  exile,  to  meet  with  such 
kindness  as  you  have  shown  me." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  speedily  pronounce  the 
fairies  fickle,"  said  she,  "for  our  drive  will  soon 
be  over,  and  you  will  find  Soho  no  fairyland." 

"How  comes  it  that  your  place  of  residence  is 
so  unsuitable  to  you,  mademoiselle?" 

"I  lodge  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  coiffeur's 
where  I  am  employed,  monsieur — v/here  I  handle 
the  tails  and  transformations.  Our  specialty  is 
artificial  eyelashes ;  the  attachment  is  quite  invisi- 
ble— and  the  result  absolutely  ravishing!  No," 
she  added  hurriedly;  "I  am  not  wearing  a  pair 
myself,  these  are  quite  natural,  word  of  honour! 
But  we  undertake  to  impart  to  any  eyes  the 
gaze  soulful,  or  the  twinkle  coquettish,  as  the 
customer  desires — as  an  artist,  I  assure  you  that 
these  expressions  are  due,  less  to  the  eyes  them- 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON        363 

selves  than  to  the  shade,  and  especially  the  curve, 
of  the  lashes.  Many  a  woman  has  entered  our 
saloon  entirely  insignificant,  and  turned  the  heads 
of  all  the  men  in  the  street  when  she  left." 

"You  interest  me  profoundly,"  said  Tricotrin. 
"At  the  same  time,  I  shall  never  know  in  future 
whether  I  am  inspired  by  a  woman's  eyes,  or 
the  skill  of  her  coiffeur.  I  say  'in  future.'  I 
entertain  no  doubt  as  to  the  source  of  my  sensa- 
tions now." 

She  rewarded  him  for  this  by  a  glance  that  diz- 
zied him,  and  soon  afterwards  the  hansom  came 
to  a  standstill  amid  an  overpowering  odour  of 
cheese, 

"We  have  arrived!"  she  proclaimed;  "so  it  is 
now  that  we  part,  monsieur.  For  me  there  is  the 
little  lodging — for  you  the  enormous  London. 
It  is  Soho — ^wander  where  you  will!  There  are 
restaurants  hereabouts  where  one  may  find  coffee 
and  rolls  at  a  modest  price.  Accept  my  thanks 
for  your  escort,  and  let  us  say  bonjour." 

"Are  the  restaurants  so  unsavoury  thaf  you 
decline  to  honour  them?"  he  questioned. 

"'Comments 

"Will  you  not  bear  me  company?  Or,  better 
still,  will  you  not  let  me  command  a  coffee-pot 
for  two  to  be  sent  to  your  apartment,  and  invite 
me  to  rest  after  my  voyage?" 


364         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

She  hesitated.  ''My  apartment  is  very  hum- 
ble," she  said,  ''and — well,  I  have  never  done  a 
thing  like  that !  It  would  not  be  correct.  What 
would  you  think  of  me  if  I  consented?" 

''I  will  think  all  that  you  would  have  me  think," 
vowed  Tricotrin.  "Come,  take  pity  on  me !  Ask 
me  in,  and  afterwards  we  will  admire  the  sights 
of  London  together.  Where  can  the  coffee-pot 
be  ordered?" 

"As  for  that,"  she  said,  "there  is  no  necessity 
— I  have  a  little  breakfast  for  two  already  pre- 
pared. Enfin,  it  is  understood — ^we  are  to  be 
good  comrades,  and  nothing  more?  Will  you 
give  yourself  the  trouble  of  entering,  monsieur?" 

The  bedroom  to  which  they  mounted  was 
shabby,  but  far  from  unattractive.  The  mantel- 
shelf was  brightened  with  flowers,  a  piano  was 
squeezed  into  a  corner,  and  Tricotrin  had  scarcely 
put  aside  his  hat  when  he  was  greeted  by  the 
odour  of  coffee  as  excellent  as  was  ever  served  in 
the  Cafe  de  la  Regence. 

"If  this  is  London,"  he  cried,  "I  have  no  fault 
to  find  with  it!  I  own  it  is  abominably  selfish  of 
me,  but  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  regret  that  your 
friend  failed  to  arrive  this  morning;  indeed,  I 
shudder  to  think  what  would  have  become  of  me 
if  we  had  not  met.  Will  you  mention  the  name 
that  is  to  figure  in  my  benisons?" 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON         365 

"'My  name  is  Rosalie  Durand,  monsieur." 

"And  mine  is  Gustave  Tricotrin,  mademoiselle 
— always  your  slave.  I  do  not  doubt  that  in 
Paris,  at  this  moment,  there  are  men  who  picture 
me  tramping  the  pavement,  desolate.  Not  one 
of  them  but  would  envy  me  from  his  heart  if  he 
could  see  my  situation!" 

"It  might  have  fallen  out  worse,  I  admit,"  said 
the  girl.  "My  own  day  was  at  the  point  of  being 
dull  to  tears — and  here  I  am  chattering  as  if  I 
hadn't  a  grief  in  the  world!  Let  me  persuade 
you  to  take  another  croissant!" 

"Fervently  I  wish  that  appearances  were  not 
deceptive!"  said  Tricotrin,  who  required  little 
persuasion.  "Is  it  indiscreet  to  inquire  to  what 
griefs  you  allude?  Upon  my  word,  your  position 
appears  a  very  pretty  one!  Where  do  those 
dainty  shoes  pinch  you?" 

"They  are  not  easy  on  foreign  soil,  monsieur. 
When  I  reflect  that  you  go  back  to-night,  that 
to-morrow  you  will  be  again  in  Paris,  I  could 
gnash  my  teeth  with  jealousy." 

"But,  ma  foi!"  returned  Tricotrin,  "to  a  girl 
of  brains,  like  yourself,  Paris  is  always  open. 
Are  there  no  customers  for  eyelashes  in  France? 
Why  condemn  yourself  to  gnash  with  jealousy 
when  there  is  a  living  to  be  earned  at  home?" 

"There  are  several  reasons,"  she  said;  "for  one 


866         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

thing,  I  am  an  extravagant  little  hussy  and 
haven't  saved  enough  for  a  ticket." 

''T  have  heard  no  reason  yet!  At  the  moment 
my  pocket  is  nicely  lined — ^you  might  return  with 
me  this  evening." 

''Are  you  mad  by  any  chance?"  she  laughed. 

''It  seems  to  me  the  natural  course." 

"Well,  I  should  not  be  free  to  go  like  that, 
even  if  I  took  your  money,  I  am  a  business 
woman,  you  see,  who  does  not  sacrifice  her  inter- 
ests to  her  sentiment.  What  is  your  own  career, 
monsieur  Tricotrin?" 

"I  am  a  poet,  And  when  I  am  back  in  Paris 
I  shall  write  verse  about  you.  It  shall  be  an  im- 
pression of  London — the  great  city  as  it  reveals 
itself  to  a  stranger  whose  eyes  are  dazzled  by  the 
girl  he  loves." 

"Forbidden  ground!"  she  cried,  admonishing 
him  with  a  finger.    "No  dazzle!" 

"I  apologise,"  said  Tricotrin;  "you  shall  find 
me  a  poet  of  my  word.  Why,  I  declare,"  he  ex- 
claimed, glancing  from  the  window,  "it  has  begun 
to  rain!" 

"Well,  fortunately,  we  have  plenty  of  time; 
there  is  all  day  for  our  excursion  and  we  can  wait 
for  the  weather  to  improve.  If  you  do  not  object 
to  smoking  while  I  sing,  monsieur,  I  propose  a 
little  music  to  go  on  with." 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON        367 

And  it  turned  out  that  this  singular  assistant 
of  a  hairdresser  had  a  very  sympathetic  voice, 
and  no  contemptible  repertoire.  Although  the 
sky  had  now  broken  its  promise  shamefully  and 
the  downpour  continued,  Tricotrin  found  nothing 
to  complain  of.  By  midday  one  would  have  said 
that  they  had  been  comrades  for  years.  By 
luncheon  both  had  ceased  even  to  regard  the 
rain.  And  before  evening  approached,  they  had 
confided  to  each  other  their  histories  from  the  day 
of  their  birth. 

Ascertaining  that  the  basement  boasted  a 
smudgy  servant  girl,  who  was  to  be  dispatched 
for  entrees  and  sauterne,  Tricotrin  drew  up  the 
menu  of  a  magnificent  dinner  as  the  climax.  It 
was  conceded  that  at  this  repast  he  should  be 
the  host ;  and  having  placed  him  on  oath  behind 
a  screen,  Rosalie  proceeded  to  make  an  elaborate 
toilette  in  honour  of  his  entertainment. 

Determined,  as  he  had  said,  to  prove  himself  a 
poet  of  his  word,  the  young  man  remained  behind 
the  screen  as  motionless  as  a  waxwork,  but  the 
temptation  to  peep  was  tremendous,  and  at  the 
whispering  of  a  silk  petticoat  he  was  unable  to 
repress  a  groan. 

"What  ails  you?"  she  demanded,  the  whisper- 
ing suspended. 


.^68         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 


"I  merely  expire  with  impatience  to  meet  you 
again." 

''Monsieur,  I  am  hastening  to  the  trysting- 
place.  And  my  costume  will  be  suitable  to  the 
occasion,  beheve  me!" 

"In  that  case,  if  you  are  not  quick,  you  will 
have  to  wear  crape.  However,  proceed.  I  can 
suffer  with  the  best  of  them.  .  .  .  Are  you  cer- 
tain that  I  can  be  of  no  assistance  ?  I  feel  selfish, 
idling  here  like  this.  Besides,  since  I  am  able  to 
see " 

"See?"  she  screamed. 

" see  no  reason  why  you  should  refuse  my 

aid,  my  plight  is  worse  still.  What  are  you  doing 
now?" 

"My  hair,"  she  announced. 

"Surely  it  would  not  be  improper  for  me  to 
view  a  head  of  hair?" 

"Perhaps  not,  monsieur;  but  my  head  is  on 
my  shoulders — ^which  makes  a  difference." 

"Mademoiselle,"  sighed  Tricotrin,  "never  have 
I  known  a  young  lady  whose  head  was  on  her 
shoulders  more  tightly.  May  I  crave  one  indul- 
gence? My  imprisonment  would  be  less  pain- 
ful for  a  cigarette,  and  I  cannot  reach  the  matches 
— will  you  consent  to  pass  them  round  the 
:screen?" 

"It  is  against  the  rules.    But  I  will  consent  to 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON        369 

throw  them  over  the  top.  Catch!  Why  don't 
you  say  'thank  you'?" 

''Because  your  unjust  suspicion  killed  me;  I 
now  need  nothing  but  immortelles,  and  at  dinner 
I  will  compose  my  epitaph.  If  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, I  already  smell  the  soup  on  the  stairs." 

And  the  soup  had  scarcely  entered  when  his 
guest  presented  herself.  Paquin  and  the  Fairy 
Godmother  would  have  approved  her  gown;  as^ 
to  her  coiffure,  if  her  employer  could  have  seen 
it,  he  would  have  wanted  to  put  her  in  his  win- 
dow. Tricotrin  gave  her  his  arm  with  stupefac- 
tion. "Upon  my  word,"  he  faltered,  "y^^  ^^^ 
me.  I  am  now  overwhelmed  with  embarrassment 
that  I  had  the  temerity  to  tease  you  while  you 
dressed.  And  what  shall  I  say  of  the  host  who  is 
churl  enough  to  welcome  you  in  such  a  shabby 
coat?" 

The  cork  went  pop,  their  tongues  went  nine- 
teen  to  the  dozen,  and  the  time  went  so  rapidly 
that  a  little  clock  on  the  chest  of  drawers  became 
a  positive  killjoy. 

"By  all  the  laws  of  dramatic  effect,"  remarked 
the  poet,  as  they  trifled  with  the  almonds  and 
raisins,  "you  will  now  divulge  that  the  fashion- 
able lady  before  me  is  no  'Rosalie  Durand,'  of  a 
hairdresser's  shop,  but  madame  la  comtesse  de 
Thrilling  Mystery.     Every  novel  reader  would 


370         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD       ^ 

be  aware  that  at  this  stage  you  will  demand  some 
dangerous  service  of  me,  and  that  I  shall  forth- 
with risk  my  life  and  win  your  love." 

"Bien  sur!  That  is  how  it  ought  to  be,"  she 
agreed. 

"Is  it  impossible?" 

"That  I  can  be  a  countess?" 

"Well,  we  will  waive  the  'countess';  and  for 
that  matter  I  will  not  insist  on  risking  my  life; 
but  what  about  the  love?" 

"Without  the  rest,"  she  demurred,  "the  situ- 
ation would  be  too  commonplace.  When  I  can 
tell  you  that  I  am  a  countess  I  will  say  also  that 
I  love  you;  to-night  I  am  Rosalie  Durand,  a 
friend.  By  the  way,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
I  shall  be  all  that  you  have  seen  in  London!" 

"Why,  I  declare,  so  you  will!"  exclaimed  Tri- 
cotrin.  "Really  this  is  a  nice  thing!  I  come  to 
England  for  the  benefit  of  my  education — and 
when  it  is  almost  time  for  me  to  return,  I  find 
that  I  have  spent  the  whole  of  the  day  in  a  room." 

"But  you  have,  at  least,  had  a  unique  experi- 
ence in  it?"  she  queried  with  a  whimsical  smile. 

"Well,  yes;  my  journey  has  certainly  yielded 
an  adventure  that  none  of  my  acquaintances 
would  credit!    Do  you  laugh  at  me?" 

"Far  from  it;  by-and-by  I  may  even  spare  a 


HOW  TRICOTRIN  SAW  LONDON        371 

tear  for  you — ^if  you  do  not  spoil  the  day  by  being 
clumsy  at  the  end." 

"Ah,  Rosalie,"  cried  the  susceptible  poet,  "how 
can  I  bear  the  parting?  What  is  France  without 
you?  I  am  no  longer  a  Frenchman — my  true 
home  is  now  England!  My  heart  will  hunger 
for  it,  my  thoughts  will  stretch  themselves  to  it 
across  the  sea;  banished  to  Montmartre,  I  shall 
mourn  daily  for  the  white  cliffs  of  Albion,  for 
Soho,  and  for  you!" 

"I,  too,  shall  remember,"  she  murmured. 
"But  perhaps  one  of  these  days  you  will  come 
to  England  again?" 

"If  the  fare  could  be  paid  with  devotion,  I 
would  come  every  Sunday,  but  how  can  I  hope 
to  amass  enough  money?  Such  things  do  not 
happen  twice.  No,  I  will  not  deceive  myself — 
this  is  our  farewell.  See!"  He  rose,  and  turned 
the  little  clock  with  its  face  to  the  wall.  "When 
that  clock  strikes,  I  must  go  to  catch  my  train — 
in  the  meantime  we  will  ignore  the  march  of  time. 
Farewells,  tears,  regrets,  let  us  forget  that  they 
exist — let  us  drink  the  last  glass  together  gaily, 
mignonne!" 

They  pledged  each  other  with  brave  smiles, 
hand  in  hand.  And  now  their  chatter  became 
fast  and  furious,  to  drown  the  clock's  impatient 
tick. 


372        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

The  clockwork  wheezed  and  whirred. 

" 'Tis  going  to  part  us,"  shouted  Tricotrin; 
''laugh,  laugh,  Beloved,  so  that  we  may  not 
hear!" 

"Kiss  me,"  she  cried;  "while  the  hour  sounds, 
you  shall  hold  me  in  your  arms!" 

"Heaven,"  gasped  the  young  man,  as  the  too 
brief  embrace  concluded,  "how  I  wish  it  had  been 
striking  midnight!" 

The  next  moment  came  the  separation.  He 
descended  the  stairs;  at  the  window  she  waved 
her  hand  to  him.  And  in  the  darkness  of  an 
"English  hansom"  the  poet  covered  his  face  and 
wept. 

"From  our  hearts  we  rejoice  to  have  thee 
safely  back!"  they  chorused  in  Montmartre. 
"And  what  didst  thou  see  in  London?" 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu,  what  noble  sights!"  exclaimed 
Tricotrin.  "The  Lor'  Maire  blazes  with  jewels 
like  the  Shah  of  Persia;  and  compared  with 
Peeccadeeliy,  the  Champs  Elysees  are  no  wider 
than  a  hatband.  Vive  I'Entente!  Positively 
my  brain  whirls  with  all  the  splendours  of  Lon- 
don I  have  seen!" 


THE  INFIDELITY  OF  MONSIEUR 
NOULENS 

Whenever  they  talk  of  him,  whom  I  will  call 
"Noulens" — of  his  novels,  his  method,  the  eccen- 
tricities of  his  talent — someone  is  sure  to  say, 
''But  what  comrades,  he  and  his  wife!" — ^you  are 
certain  to  hear  it.  And  as  often  as  I  hear  it 
myself,  I  think  of  what  he  told  me  that  evening 
— I  remember  the  shock  I  had. 

At  the  beginning,  I  had  expected  little.  When 
I  went  in,  his  wife  said,  "I  fear  he  will  be  poor 
company;  he  has  to  write  a  short  story  for  La 
Voix,  and  cannot  find  a  theme — he  has  been  beat- 
ing his  brains  all  day.''  So  far  from  anticipating 
emotions,  I  had  proposed  dining  there  another 
night  instead,  but  she  would  not  allow  me  to 
leave.  ''Something  you  say  may  suggest  a 
theme  to  him,"  she  declared,  "and  he  can  write 
or  dictate  the  story  in  an  hour,  when  you  have 
gone." 

So  I  stayed,  and  after  dinner  he  lay  on  the 
sofa,  bewailing  the  fate  that  had  made  him  an 
author.    The  salon  communicated  with  his  study, 

373 


8T4         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

and  through  the  open  door  he  had  the  invitation 
of  his  writing-table — ^the  little  sheaf  of  paper  that 
she  had  put  in  readiness  for  him,  the  lighted 
lamp,  the  pile  of  cigarettes.  I  knew  that  she 
hoped  the  view  would  stimulate  him,  but  it  was 
soon  apparent  that  he  had  ceased  to  think  of  a 
story  altogether.  He  spoke  of  one  of  the  latest 
murders  in  Paris,  one  sensational  enough  for  the 
Paris  Press  to  report  a  murder  prominently — of 
a  conference  at  the  Universite  des  Annales,  of 
the  artistry  of  Esther  Lekain,  of  everything  ex- 
cept his  work.  Then,  in  the  hall,  the  telephone 
bell  rang,  and  madame  Noulens  rose  to  receive 
the  message.    "Alio!    Alio!" 

She  did  not  come  back.  There  was  a  pause, 
and  presently  he  murmured : 

"I  wonder  if  a  stranger  has  been  moved  to 
telephone  a  plot  to  me?" 

"What?"  I  said. 

"It  sounds  mad,  hein?  But  it  once  happened 
— on  just  such  a  night  as  this,  when  my  mind  was 
just  as  blank.  Really!  Out  of  the  silence  a 
woman  told  me  a  beautiful  story.  Of  course,  I 
never  used  it,  nor  do  I  know  if  she  made  use  of 
it  herself;  but  I  have  never  forgotten.  For  years 
I  could  not  hear  a  telephone  bell  without  trem- 
bling. Even  now,  when  I  am  working  late,  I 
find  myself  hoping  for  her  voice." 


INFIDELIl^  OF  M.  NOULENS  375 

''The  stoiy  was  so  wonderful  as  that?" 

He  threw  a  glance  into  the  study,  as  if  to 
assure  himself  that  his  wife  had  not  entered  it 
from  the  hall. 

''Can  you  believe  that  a  man  may  learn  to  love 
— tenderly  and  truly  love — a  woman  he  has  never 
met?"  he  asked  me. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  you." 

"There  has  been  only  one  woman  in  my  life 
who  was  all  in  all  to  me,"  he  said — "and  I  never 
saw  her." 

How  was  I  to  answer?    I  looked  at  him. 

"After  all,  what  is  there  incredible  in  it?"  he 
demanded.  "Do  we  give  our  love  to  a  face,  or 
to  a  temperament?  I  swear  to  you  that  I  could 
not  have  known  that  woman's  temperament  more 
intimately  if  we  had  made  our  confidences  in  each 
other's  arms.  I  knew  everything  of  her,  except 
the  trifles  which  a  stranger  learns  in  the  moment 
of  being  presented — her  height,  her  complexion, 
her  name,  whether  she  was  married  or  single. 
No,  those  things  I  never  knew.  But  her  tastes, 
her  sympathies,  her  soul,  these,  the  secret  truths 
of  the  woman,  were  as  familiar  to  me  as  to 
herself." 

He  hesitated. 

"I  am  in  a  difficulty.  If  I  seem  to  disparage 
my  wife,  I  shall  be  a  cad ;  if  I  let  you  think  we 


376         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

have  been  as  happy  together  as  people  imagine, 
you  will  not  understand  the  importance  of  what 
I  am  going  to  tell  you.  I  will  say  this:  before 
our  honeymoon  was  over,  I  bored  her  fearfully. 
While  we  were  engaged,  I  had  talked  to  her  of 
my  illusions  about  herself;  when  we  were  mar- 
ried, I  talked  to  her  of  my  convictions  about  my 
art.  The  change  appalled  her.  She  was  chilled, 
crushed,  dumfounded.  I  looked  to  her  to  share 
my  interests.  For  response,  she  yawned — and 
wept. 

''Oh,  her  tears!  her  hourly  tears!  the  tears  that 
drowned  my  love ! 

"The  philosopher  is  made,  not  born;  in  the  first 
few  years  I  rebelled  furiously.  I  wanted  a  com- 
panion, a  confidant,  and  I  had  never  felt  so  des- 
perately alone. 

"We  had  a  flat  in  the  rue  de  Sontay  then,  and 
the  telephone  was  in  my  workroom.  One  night 
late,  as  I  sat  brooding  there,  the  bell  startled  me ; 
and  a  voice — a  woman's  voice,  said : 

"  'I  am  so  lonely;  I  want  to  talk  to  you  before 
I  sleep.' 

"I  cannot  describe  the  strangeness  of  that 
^^  appeal,  reaching  me  so  suddenly  out  of  the  dis- 
tance. I  knew  that  it  was  a  mistake,  of  course, 
but  it  was  as  if,  away  in  the  city,  some  nameless 


<6    C- 


INFIDELITY  OF  M.  NOULENS  377 

soul  had  echoed  the  cry  in  my  own  heart.     I 
obeyed  an  impulse ;  I  said : 

"  'I,  too,  am  very  lonely — I  believe  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you.' 

"There  was  a  pause,  and  then  she  asked,  dis- 
mayed : 

Who  are  you?' 

Not  the  man  you  thought,'  I  told  her.    'But 
a  very  wistful  one.' 

"I  heard  soft  laughter.  'How  absurd!'  she 
murmured. 

"  'Be  merciful,'  I  went  on;  'we  are  both  sad, 
and  Fate  clearly  intends  us  to  console  each  other. 
It  cannot  compromise  you,  for  I  do  not  even 
know  who  you  are.  Stay  and  talk  to  me  for  five 
minutes.' 

'What  do  you  ask  me  to  talk  about?' 
Oh,  the  subject  to  interest  us  both — ^your- 
self.' 

"After  a  moment  she  answered,  'I  am  shaking 
my  head.' 

"  'It  is  very  unfeeling  of  you,'  I  said.  'And  I 
have  not  even  the  compensation  of  seeing  you 
doit.' 

"Imagine  another  pause,  and  then  her  voice 
in  my  ear  again: 

"  'I  will  tell  you  what  I  can  do  for  you — I  can 
tell  you  a  story.' 


cc  c, 


878         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"  'The  truth  would  please  me  more/  I  owned. 
'Still,  if  my  choice  must  be  made  between  your 
story  and  your  silence,  I  certainly  choose  the 
story.' 

"  'I  applaud  your  taste,'  she  said.  'Are  you 
comfortable — are  you  sitting  down?' 

"I  sat  down,  smiling.    'Madame ' 

"She  did  not  reply. 

"Then,  'Mademoiselle ^ 

"Again  no  answer. 


<c  c 


Well,  say  at  least  if  I  have  your  permission 
to  smoke  while  I  listen  to  you?' 

"She  laughed:    'You  carry  courtesy  far!' 

"  'How  far?'  I  asked  quickly. 

"But  she  would  not  even  hint  from  what  neigh- 
bourhood she  was  speaking  to  me.  'Attend!'  she 
commanded — and  began: 

"  'It  is  a  story  of  two  lovers,'  she  said,  'Paul 
and  Rosamonde.  They  were  to  have  married, 
but  Rosamonde  died  too  soon.  When  she  was 
dying,  she  gave  him  a  curl  of  the  beautiful  brown 
hair  that  he  used  to  kiss.  "Au  revoir,  dear  love," 
she  whispered;  "it  will  be  very  stupid  in  Heaven 
until  you  come.  Remember  that  I  am  waiting 
for  you  and  be  faithful.  If  your  love  for  me 
fades,  you  will  see  that  curl  of  mine  fade  too." 

"  'Every  day  through  the  winter  Paul  strewed 
flowers  on  her  tomb,  and  sobbed.     And  in  the 


INFIDELITY  OF  M.  NOULENS  379 

spring  he  strewed  flowers  and  sighed.  And  in 
the  summer  he  paid  that  flowers  might  be  strewn 
there  for  him.  Sometimes,  when  he  looked  at  the 
dead  girl's  hair,  he  thought  that  it  was  paler  than 
it  had  been,  but,  as  he  looked  at  it  seldom  now, 
he  could  easily  persuade  himself  that  he  was 
mistaken. 

"  'Then  he  met  a  woman  who  made  him  happy 
again ;  and  the  wind  chased  the  withered  flowers 
from  Rosamonde's  grave  and  left  it  bare.  One 
day  Paul's  wife  found  a  little  packet  that  lay 
forgotten  in  his  desk.  She  opened  it  jealously, 
before  he  could  prevent  her.  Paul  feared  that 
the  sight  would  give  her  pain,  and  watched  her 
with  anxious  eyes.  But  in  a  moment  she  was 
laughing.  "What  an  idiot  I  am,"  she  exclaimed 
— "I  was  afraid  that  it  was  the  hair  of  some  girl 
you  had  loved!"    The  curl  was  snow-white.' 

"Her  fantastic  tale,"  continued  Noulens, 
"which  was  told  with  an  earnestness  that  I  cannot 
reproduce,  impressed  me  very  much.  I  did  not 
offer  any  criticism,  I  did  not  pay  her  any  com- 
pliment; I  said  simply: 

"'Who  are  you?' 

"  'That,'  she  warned  me,  'is  a  question  that  you 
must  not  ask.    Well,  are  you  still  bored?' 

"  'No.' 

Interested,  a  little?' 


(C  (- 


380         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"  'Very  much  so.' 

"  'I,  too,  am  feeling  happier  than  I  did.  And 
now,  bonsoir!' 

"  'Wait,'  I  begged.  'Tell  me  when  I  shall 
speak  to  you  again.' 

"She  hesitated;  and  I  assure  you  that  I  had 
never  waited  for  a  woman's  answer  with  more 
suspense  while  I  held  her  hand,  than  I  waited 
for  the  answer  of  this  woman  whom  I  could  not 
see.     'To-morrow?'  I  urged.     'In  the  morning?' 

"  'In  the  morning  it  would  be  difficult.' 

"  'The  afternoon?' 

"  'In  the  afternoon  it  would  be  impossible.' 

"  'Then  the  evening — at  the  same  hour?' 

"  'Perhaps,'  she  faltered — 'if  I  am  free.' 

"  'My  number,'  I  told  her,  'is  five-four-two, 
one-nine.     Can  you  write  it  now?' 

"  'I  have  written  it.' 

"  'Please  repeat,  so  that  there  may  be  no 
mistake.' 

"  'Five-four-two,  one-nine.     Correct?' 

"  'Correct.    I  am  grateful.' 

"  'Good-night.' 

"  'Good-night.    Sleep  well.' 

"You  may  suppose  that  on  the  morrow  I  re- 
membered the  incident  with  a  smile,  that  I  ridi- 
culed the  emotion  it  had  roused  in  me?  You 
would  be  wrong.     I  recalled  it  more  and  more 


INFIDELITY  OF  M.  NOULENS  381 

curiously:  I  found  myself  looking  forward  to  the 
appointment  with  an  eagerness  that  was  astonish- 
ing. We  had  talked  for  about  twenty  minutes, 
hidden  from  each  other — half  Paris,  perhaps, 
dividing  us ;  I  had  nothing  more  tangible  to  ex- 
pect this  evening.  Yet  I  experienced  all  the 
sensations  of  a  man  who  waits  for  an  interview, 
for  an  embrace.  What  did  it  mean?  I  was 
bewildered.  The  possibility  of  love  at  first  sight 
I  understood ;  but  might  the  spirit  also  recognise 
an  affinity  by  telephone? 

*'There  is  a  phrase  in  feuilletons  that  had  al- 
ways irritated  me — 'To  his  impatience  it  seemed 
that  the  clock  had  stopped.'  It  had  always 
struck  me  as  absurd.  Since  that  evening  I  have 
never  condemned  the  phrase,  for  honestly,  I 
thought  more  than  once  that  the  clock  had 
stopped.  By-and-by,  to  increase  the  tension,  my 
wife,  who  seldom  entered  my  workroom,  opened 
the  door.  She  found  me  idle,  and  was  moved  to 
converse  with  me.  Mon  Dieu!  Nbw  that  the 
hour  approached  at  last,  my  wife  was  present, 
with  the  air  of  having  settled  herself  for  the 
night! 

''The  hands  of  the  clock  moved  on — and  always 
faster  now.  If  she  remained  till  the  bell  rang, 
what  was  I  to  do?  To  answer  that  I  had  'some- 
one with  me'  would  be  inteUigible  to  the  lady,  but 


S8£         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

it  would  sound  suspicious  to  my  wife.  To 
answer  that  I  was  'busy'  would  sound  innocent  to 
my  wife,  but  it  would  be  insulting  to  the  lady. 
To  disregard  the  bell  altogether  would  be  to  let 
my  wife  go  to  the  telephone  herself!  I  tell  you 
I  perspired. 

"Under  Providence,  our  cook  rescued  me. 
There  came  a  timid  knock,  and  then  the  figure 
of  the  cook,  her  eyes  inflamed,  her  head  swathed 
in  some  extraordinary  garment.  She  had  a  rag- 
ing toothache — ^would  madame  have  the  kindness 
to  give  her  a  little  cognac?  The  ailments  of  the 
cook  always  arouse  in  human  nature  more  solici- 
tude than  the  ailments  of  any  other  servant.  My 
wife's  sympathy  was  active — I  was  saved ! 

"The  door  had  scarcely  closed  when  tr-rr-r-^g 
the  signal  came. 

"  'Good-evening,'  from  the  voice.  'So  you  are 
here  to  meet  me.' 

"  'Good-evening,'  I  said.  'I  would  willingly 
go  further  to  meet  you.' 

"  'Be  thankful  that  the  rendez-vous  was  your 
flat — listen  to  the  rain!  Come,  own  that  you 
congratulated  yourself  when  it  began!  "Luckily 
I  can  be  gallant  without  getting  wet,"  you 
thought.  Really,  I  am  most  considerate — ^you 
keep  a  dry  skin,  you  waste  no  time  in  reaching 


INFIDELITY  OF  M.  NOULENS  383 

me,  and  you  need  not  even  trouble  to  change 
your  coat.' 

"  'It  sounds  very  cosy/  I  admitted,  'but  there 
is  one  drawback  to  it  all — I  do  not  see  you.' 

"  'That  may  be  more  considerate  of  me  still! 
I  may  be  reluctant  to  banish  your  illusions.  Isn't 
it  probable  that  I  am  elderly — or,  at  least  plain? 
I  may  even  be  a  lady  novelist,  with  ink  on  her 
fingers.  By-the-bye,  monsieur,  I  have  been  re- 
reading one  of  your  books  since  last  night.' 

"  'Oh,  you  know  my  name  now?  I  am  grati- 
fied to  have  become  more  than  a  telephonic 
address  to  you.    May  I  ask  if  we  have  ever  met?' 

"  'We  never  spoke  tiU  last  night,  but  I  have 
seen  you  often.' 

"  'You,  at  any  rate,  can  have  no  illusions  to  be 
banished.  What  a  relief!  I  have  endeavoured 
to  talk  as  if  I  had  a  romantic  bearing;  now  that 
you  know  how  I  look,  I  can  be  myself.' 

"  'I  await  your  next  words  with  terror,'  she 
said.  'What  shock  is  in  store  for  me?  Speak 
gently.' 

"  'Well,  speaking  gently,  I  am  very  glad  that 
you  were  put  on  to  the  wrong  number  last  night. 
At  the  same  time,  I  feel  a  constraint,  a  difficulty; 
I  cannot  talk  to  you  frankly,  cannot  be  serious — 
it  is  as  if  I  showed  my  face  while  you  were 
masked.' 


384i         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"  'Yes,  it  is  true — I  understand/  she  said. 
*And  even  if  I  were  to  swear  that  I  was  not  un- 
worthy of  your  frankness,  you  would  still  be 
doubtful  of  me,  I  suppose?' 

"  'Madame ' 

"  'Oh,  it  is  natural!  I  know  very  well  how  I 
must  appear  to  you,'  she  exclaimed;  'a  coquette, 
with  a  new  pastime — a  vulgar  coquette,  besides, 
who  tries  to  pique  your  interest  by  an  air  of  mys- 
tery. Believe  me,  monsieur,  I  am  forbidden  to 
unmask.  Think  lightly  of  me  if  you  mast — I 
have  no  right  to  complain — but  believe  as  much 
as  that!  I  do  not  give  you  my  name,  simply 
because  I  may  not.' 

"  'Madame,'  I  replied,  'so  far  from  wishing  to 
force  your  conjSdences,  I  assure  you  that  I  will 
never  inquire  who  you  are,  never  try  to  find  out.' 

"  'And  you  will  talk  frankly,  unconstrainedly, 
all  the  same?' 

"  'Ah,  you  are  too  illogical  to  be  elderly  and 
plain,'  I  demurred.  'You  resolve  to  remain  a 
stranger  to  me,  and  I  bow  to  your  decision ;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  man  makes  confidences  only 
to  his  friends.' 

"There  was  a  long  pause;  and  when  I  heard 
the  voice  again,  it  trembled: 

"  'Adieu,  monsieur.' 

"  'Adieu,  madame,'  I  said. 


INFIDELITY  OF  M.  NOULENS  385 

"No  sooner  had  she  gone  than  I  would  have 
given  ahnost  anything  to  bring  her  back.  For 
a  long  while  I  sat  praying  that  she  would  ring 
again.  I  watched  the  telephone  as  if  it  had  been 
her  window,  the  door  of  her  home — something 
that  could  yield  her  to  my  view.  During  the 
next  few  days  I  grudged  every  minute  that  I  was 
absent  from  the  room — I  took  my  meals  in  it. 
Never  had  I  had  the  air  of  working  so  indef atig- 
ably,  and  in  truth  I  did  not  write  a  line.  *I 
suppose  you  have  begun  a  new  romance?'  said  my 
wife.    In  my  soul  I  feared  that  I  had  finished  it !" 

Noulens  sighed;  he  clasped  his  hands  on  his 
head.  The  dark  hair,  the  thin,  restless  fingers 
were  all  that  I  could  see  of  him  where  I  sat. 
Some  seconds  passed ;  I  wondered  whether  there 
would  be  time  for  me  to  hear  the  rest  before  his 
wife  returned. 

"In  my  soul  I  feared  that  I  had  finished  it," 
he  repeated.  "Extraordinary  as  it  appears,  I  was 
in  love  with  a  woman  I  had  never  seen.  Each 
time  that  bell  sounded,  my  heart  seemed  to  try 
to  choke  me.  It  had  been  my  grievance,  since  we 
had  the  telephone  installed,  that  we  heard  noth- 
ing of  it  excepting  that  we  had  to  make  another 
payment  for  its  use;  but  now,  by  a  maddening 
coincidence,  everybody  that  I  had  ever  met  took 


386         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

to  ringing  me  up  about  trifles  and  agitating  me 
twenty  times  a  day. 

"At  last,  one  night — ^when  expectation  was 
almost  dead — she  called  to  me  again.  Oh,  but 
her  voice  was  humble!  My  friend,  it  is  piteous 
when  we  love  a  woman,  to  hear  her  humbled.  I 
longed  to  take  her  hands,  to  fold  my  arms  about 
her.  I  abased  myself,  that  she  might  regain  her 
pride.  She  heard  how  I  had  missed  and  sorrowed 
for  her;  I  owned  that  she  was  dear  to  me. 

"And  then  began  a  companionship — strange 
as  you  may  find  the  word — ^which  was  the  sweet- 
est my  life  has  held.  We  talked  together  daily. 
This  woman,  whose  whereabouts,  whose  face, 
whose  name  were  all  unknown  to  me,  became  the 
confidant  of  my  disappointments  and  my  hopes. 
If  I  worked  well,  my  thoughts  would  be,  'To- 
night I  shall  have  good  news  to  give  her;'  if  I 
worked  ill — 'Never  mind,  by-and-by  she  will 
encourage  me !'  There  was  not  a  page  in  my  next 
novel  that  I  did  not  read  to  her;  never  a  doubt 
beset  me  in  which  I  did  not  turn  for  her  sym- 
pathy and  advice. 

"  'Well,  how  have  you  got  on?' 
"  'Oh,  I  am  so  troubled  this  evening,  dear!' 
"  'Poor  fellow!    Tell  me  all  about  it.    I  tried 
to  come  to  you  sooner,  but  I  couldn't  get  away.' 
"Like  that!    We  talked  as  if  she  were  really 


INFIDELITY  OF  M.  NOULENS  387 

with  me.  My  life  was  no  longer  desolate— the 
indifference  in  my  home  no  longer  grieved  me. 
All  the  interest,  the  love,  the  inspiration  I  had 
hungered  for,  was  given  to  me  now  by  a  woman 
who  remained  invisible." 

Noulens  paused  again.  In  the  pause  I  got  up 
to  light  a  cigarette,  and — I  shall  never  forget 
it — I  saw  the  bowed  figure  of  his  wife  beyond  the 
study  door!  It  was  only  a  glimpse  I  had,  but 
the  glimpse  was  enough  to  make  my  heart  stand 
still — she  leant  over  the  table,  her  face  hidden  by 
her  hand. 

I  tried  to  warn,  to  signal  to  him — ^he  did  not 
see  me.  I  felt  that  I  could  do  nothing,  nothing 
at  all,  without  doubling  her  humiliation  by  the 
knowledge  that  I  had  witnessed  it.  If  he  would 
only  look  at  me ! 

"Listen,"  he  went  on  rapidly.  "I  was  happy, 
I  was  young  again — and  there  was  a  night  when 
she  said  to  me,  'It  is  for  the  last  time.' 

"Six  words!  But  for  a  moment  I  had  no 
breath,  no  life,  to  answer  them. 

"  'Speak!'  she  cried  out.  'You  are  frightening 
me!' 

"  'What  has  happened?'  I  stammered.  'Trust 
me,  I  implore  you!' 

"I  heard  her  sobbing — and  minutes  seemed  to 
pass.     It  was  horrible.     I  thought  my  heart 


388         A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

would  burst  while  I  shuddered  at  her  sobs — ^the 
sobbing  of  a  woman  I  could  not  reach. 

"  *I  can  tell  you  nothing,'  she  said,  when  she 
was  calmer;  'only  that  we  are  speaking  together 
for  the  last  time/ 

"  'But  why — ^why?  Is  it  that  you  are  leaving 
France?'  ^ 

"  'I  cannot  tell  you,'  she  repeated.  'I  have 
had  to  swear  that  to  myself.' 

"Oh,  I  raved  to  her!  I  was  desperate.  I  tried 
to  wring  her  name  from  her  then — I  besought 
her  to  confess  where  she  was  hidden.  The  space 
between  us  frenzied  me.  It  was  frightful,  it  was 
like  a  nightmare,  that  struggle  to  tear  the  truth 
from  a  woman  whom  I  could  not  clasp  or  see. 

"  'My  dear,'  she  said,  'there  are  some  things 
that  are  beyond  human  power.  They  are  not 
merely  difficult,  or  unwise,  or  mad — ^they  are  im- 
possible. You  have  begged  the  impossible  of  me. 
You  will  never  hear  me  again,  it  is  far  from 
likely  we  shall  ever  meet — and  if  one  day  we  do, 
you  will  not  even  know  that  it  is  I.  But  I  love 
you.  I  should  like  to  think  that  you  believe  it, 
for  I  love  you  very  dearly.  Now  say  good-bye  to 
me.  My  arms  are  round  your  neck,  dear  heart — 
I  kiss  you  on  the  lips.' 

"It  was  the  end.     She  was  lost.     A  moment 


INFIDELITY  OF  M.  NOULENS  389 

before,  I  had  felt  her  presence  in  my  senses;  now 
I  stood  in  an  empty  room,  mocked  by  a  futile 
apparatus.  My  friend,  if  you  have  ever  yearned 
to  see  a  woman  whose  whereabouts  you  did  not 
know — ever  exhausted  yourself  tramping  some 
district  in  the  hope  of  finding  her — you  may 
realise  what  I  feel;  for  remember  that  by  com- 
parison your  task  was  easy — I  am  even  ignorant 
of  this  woman's  arrondissement  and  appearance. 
She  left  me  helpless.  The  telephone  had  given 
her — ^the  telephone  had  taken  her  away.  All  that 
remained  to  me  was  the  mechanism  on  a  table." 

Noiilens  turned  on  the  couch  at  last — and, 
turning,  he  could  not  fail  to  see  his  wife.  I  was 
spellbound. 

"  'Mechanism  on  a  table,*  he  repeated,  with  a 
prodigious  yawn  of  rehef.  'That  is  all,  my 
own.' '' 

"Gk)od!"  said  madame  Noulens  cheerily.  She 
bustled  in,  fluttering  pages  of  shorthand.  "But, 
old  angel,  the  tale  of  Paul  and  Rosamonde  is 
thrown  away — it  is  an  extravagance,  telling  two 
stories  for  the  price  of  one !" 

"My  treasure,  thou  knowest  I  invented  it 
months  ago  and  couldn't  make  it  long  enough 
for  it  to  be  of  any  use." 


890        A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

"True.  Well,  we  will  be  liberal,  then — ^we 
will  include  it."  She  noticed  my  amazement. 
"What  ails  our  friend?" 

Noulens  gave  a  guffaw.  "I  fear  our  friend  did 
not  recognize  that  I  was  dictating  to  you.  By- 
the-bye,  it  was  fortunate  someone  rang  us  up 
just  now — ^that  started  my  plot  for  me!  Who 
was  it?" 

"It  was  La  Voixf'  she  laughed,  "inquiring  if 
the  story  would  be  done  in  time!" 

Yes,  indeed,  they  are  comrades ! — ^you  are  cer- 
tain to  hear  it.  And  as  often  as  I  hear  it  myself, 
I  think  of  what  he  told  me  that  evening — I  re- 
member how  he  took  me  in. 


14  DAY  rr<!p  ^^^^—rt 

TO  DKK  FROM  WHi™  »^. 

lOAN  DEPT  "  ' 


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